Maybe in the meantime wait and see
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: First Sherlock and now Mary, in the space of three years John has lost the two most important people in his life. So excuse him for laughing hysterically when Sherlock walks in the door. John/Sherlock, John/Mary
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Maybe in the meantime wait and see.**

**Author: **Mildredandbobbin

**Rating: **M

**Pairing: **John/Sherlock, John/Mary

**Warnings: **shameless 90s music quoting, character death, moping, sexual scenes between consenting adults

**Disclaimer: **This incarnation of Sherlock Holmes is owned by Moffatt, Gatiss & co. Borrowing from the Empty House and bits of other original canon by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Summary: **First Sherlock and now Mary, in the space of three years John has lost the two most important people in his life. So excuse him for laughing hysterically when Sherlock walks in the door.

**Author's Note:** Title from 'In the meantime' by Spacehog. Everclear lyric in story is from Amphetamine. Inspired by The Land of Nod by Erin Giles - (tearstolaughter on livejournal, sorry don't think I can link on here).

* * *

**Maybe in the meantime wait and see.**

Sherlock hadn't intended to return. Moriarty had proven definitively that Sherlock's affection for others had compromised him. Mycroft was right, caring was not an advantage. Sherlock had allowed himself to care and Moriarty had used that against him with brutal efficacy. Dying had not only allowed him to beat Moriarty, it had provided a solution to this weakness. Freedom in death, the liberty to hunt Moriarty's network, to be able to protect John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly and anyone else who had been foolish enough to become connected to him. He would hide and he would destroy Moriarty's legacy and then he would start again with a new persona, and this time he would not make the same mistake.

John would not go away. Sherlock _missed_ him. The sentimentality of it surprised and sickened Sherlock, as if it was proof at how vulnerable he had allowed himself to become. He tried to delete, redact, purge all John related memories but they were so entwined with everything that had been since a limping, stolid, painfully ordinary, frustratingly wonderful ex-army doctor had come into his life that it was virtually impossible. And he'd regularly find himself reminded of said ex-army doctor, for the most obscure reasons: the way a shadow fell in the room would suddenly bring back the startlingly clear memory of sitting in Baker Street one evening watching John painstakingly tap out one of his ridiculously workman-like blog atrocities. He'd had to give up drinking tea. Worse was the loneliness. Before John he hadn't cared if he was alone but now he ached to have someone with him to talk to, to listen, to laugh with, to just…understand. He hadn't known he'd miss that so much. Besides he needed to know, _know,_ John was safe. He needed to know that no roots from the poisonous vine of Moriarty would twist back to harm him. He couldn't delete him completely. It wasn't feasible. John was the reason and the cause.

He kept in contact with Molly, the only person who knew, and Molly kept him up to date on John, filling in gaps from information gathered from his homeless network and his own eyes.

John coped. Sherlock knew he would. John was strong and resilient and capable. John found himself a new flat (something that made Sherlock ache just a little), used the money Sherlock had left him to start his own practice and after a while even began to develop a social life (tedious, and there was that odd ache again). If John looked tired and a bit sad for far longer than Sherlock would have thought necessary, then he counted it as a figment of his ego's wishful thinking.

"He still talks about you," Molly told him, a year and a half on. "He still looks sad. You could come back now. Everyone's forgotten. You could sort it out, you're clever enough."

Sherlock didn't dignify that intrusion with a response. Of course he had thought about coming back. Of course he sometimes indulged that ridiculous train of thought. He couldn't risk it again, couldn't risk feeling that mind numbing fear that nearly crippled him when he realised exactly what Moriarty's plan entailed, that to save himself would mean killing John, unacceptable, so he'd have to die. He couldn't risk that weakness, that exposure. He couldn't risk John. As long as John was alive and well that was all that mattered. Sherlock would keep away to ensure that.

He found out through his homeless network that John had a new girlfriend. A redheaded woman from Edinburgh called Mary Morstan. Sherlock confirmed this himself, as well as the fact that John had had five dates, had slept with her twice, and was happy. The woman made John laugh and made his eyes light up the same way as when he'd called Sherlock brilliant. It made Sherlock feel a hollow ache inside and his throat thick but this was good. John would be happy. John needed to be happy.

Molly finally admitted it after the twentieth date, by then the ache had dulled and Sherlock knew he had made the right decision to stay away. John would have a normal, safe, ordinary, dull, boring, _happy_ life.

They were married six months later. Sherlock went to Portugal and then Chitral, then Portland, then Santiago, then Broome, then Moscow, then Johannesburg. He did not contact Molly or his homeless network or go to London for over a year. Finally he sent Molly an email. She responded almost immediately:

_Mary died. It was a car accident. She was pregnant. Drunk driver. John's a mess. It was like when you first – well, he's not coping. _

Sherlock paused, fingers frozen on the keyboard in the Internet Café in Ontario. Oh John. He felt that pain in his chest, now in his throat. Oh John.

This was not supposed to happen.

He ran through his list of Moriarty associates. Risk? There was still Moran out there, the rest were small fry, possibly of no consequence but who knew what scum would rise to the surface once Moran was despatched, the same way Moran himself had stepped in when Jim Moriarty put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Pulled the trigger...

How badly was John not coping?

Sherlock's fingers flew over the keyboard as he booked a flight to Heathrow. He would see for himself. He would assess the risk. He would intervene if necessary.

It was not right that John should have to mourn someone again. It was not right that he should have to start coping again. Oh people did it all the time, but John didn't deserve this. John _had_ to be happy, knowing John was happy and safe and normal and boring and ordinary and _happy_ was the only way Sherlock could bear the memories, the ache…carrying on.

* * *

John thought that whoever was in charge of the universe was having a huge laugh at his expense, in the same kind of way the unpleasant kid in school would giggle while he pulled the wings off flies. Oh God. First Sherlock and now Mary, in the space of three years he'd lost both of them. Mary was gone. Mary, his rock, good, kind, loving, gentle, funny, sharp, cuddly, sexy, lovely, perfect Mary was gone. And their baby. They'd just had the twelve week scan, seen the little body moving on the ultrasound. The sonographer hadn't been able to see any boy bits but it was too soon to tell positively. John had started thinking it would be a little girl. He'd liked the idea of having a little girl. He'd protect her and let her wrap him around her little finger. And then some fucker in a Range had plowed into Mary's Suzuki and she'd been gone before the ambulance even arrived.

John had gone to the court case. Watched the fucker get sent down for a measely five years. As if that's all Mary and the baby's lives were worth because some tosser couldn't remember that getting into a metal projectile and hurling it down the road after consuming five pints of lager and a scotch in two hours might be a bad idea.

John went to the pub afterwards and ordered five pints of lager and a scotch and drank the whole fucking lot. Nope. He would not have thought it safe to drive in this condition. No.

Greg Lestrade had let him out of the lock up the next morning and gave him a lift home.

First Sherlock and now Mary. How was that fair? How the fuck was he meant to carry on _again_? Mary had saved him after Sherlock. She'd given him a reason to enjoy living again. He didn't want to have to try all over again to find another point.

Mary had no family, except a granny in Edinburgh who John had gone to see, to tell in person. And wasn't that the shittest thing he'd ever had to do, apart from bury his best friend, his wife, his unborn child?

Harry had made him come and stay with her. She had her 'worried about you, John' face on constantly. She did her best to be awkwardly sympathetic which only made it worse and made him loathe seeing her because he just wanted to be left alone, to be allowed to feel like shit because his wife had died, close on the heels of the best man he'd ever known and his life was shit. He ended up getting a little flat close to his practice, the one he'd bought with the stupid amount of money Sherlock had left him (trust fund apparently), and moving out of Harry's.

He worked too many hours. He took lots of walks. Spent a lot of time sitting in the park feeling utterly shite. First Sherlock, now Mary. He'd been blessed to have the two best, most brilliant, wonderful people enter his lives – and then both of them had been torn out of his hands.

So when he opened his door one evening, six months after Mary died, a year and a half after he married her and over three years after Sherlock had committed suicide, and saw a ginger, skinnier version of Sherlock Holmes standing in his door way he just started laughing.

* * *

John was not coping. Sherlock had watched him going to and from work, watched him sit alone in a park on his lunch break, watched him picking up a few groceries at Tescos (beans, bread, milk, jam). He wasn't eating properly, wasn't sleeping properly, wasn't keeping in contact with anyone, was limping again, was drinking (alone), that much was easly deduced. What was worse though was the blank, empty look on John's face. It was wrong on John's face, a face that should have been smiling or at least grumpy or angry or fierce or mildly amused. Not this blank nothingness, as if there was no point to even feeling sad.

Sherlock found the bedsit John had moved to, and got an old lady to buzz him up. He stood outside the door on the landing for a long moment, surprised by his own reaction – trepidation, concern, anticipation? He frowned and knocked and then waited the thirty two heartbeats before John answered the door.

John stared at him for a full minute and Sherlock stared back, cataloguing everything he could about John from his face, his clothes, his demeanour.

"No." John stepped back, his voice was terse.

"John, it's me," said Sherlock, aiming for gentle. Up close it was even more obvious that the man was a mess. Oh John.

"You are dead," stated John.

Sherlock bit back an 'obviously not' – not helpful. Sherlock knew he was obtuse when it came to emotional intelligence but even he could see that John was fragile.

"I'm not. It was faked. I'm back now." Simple explanations were good.

And John made a sound that for a worrying moment Sherlock thought might have been the start of a sob but instead became a ragged laugh, and John stepped back choking on wrong, broken laughter.

"Course you're not. Course you're fucking not." He pressed the back of his hands to his lips, the laughter now gasped sobs. He straightened, staring at Sherlock.

"You fucking wanker. Bloody hell, look at you. You bloody jammy bastard." The words should have been angry words but they were spoken in a low tight voice. John shook his head, snorted a laugh again. He gripped the edge of the tiny bedsit's kitchen cabinet, knuckles white. His lips were pressed tight.

"May I come in?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed again. "Why the hell not?" and he gestured to the tiny room theatrically. "Make yourself at home."

Sherlock shut the door behind him, not taking his eyes off John. John – marvellous, wonderful, possibly about to punch him in the face, John.

John folded his arms tight in front of him. "Why are you here then? Suddenly remember me? Oh that's right, John, wonder whatever happened to him?"

Sarcasm.

"I heard about…your wife. I wanted to…make sure you were all right." Make sure you weren't going to do something stupid, Sherlock wanted to say but knew enough to realise that might be a bit not good.

John's face hardened. "Ah yes. Thank you. Well. No, I'm not all right really. Not all right at all. Bit shit to be honest."

"Ah. I am sorry." So much emotion, it made Sherlock feel useless, ineffectual.

John laughed then, an ugly bitter sound. "Didn't really give a shit about if I'd be all right when you made me watch you jump off a building did you?"

This was so patently unfair that Sherlock responded sharply, "Moriarty was going to kill you – you, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade – unless I jumped. So I jumped. Lucky for me I found a way not to die, isn't it?"

John's bitter expression melted into one that was worse, defeated, empty. "Of course, of course you had a good reason, a noble reason. Well done. So. You're not dead after all. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Come back to Baker Street with me." Oh. Those weren't the words he'd meant to say. All this emotion was confusing him. He held his breath, waiting to hear John's response.

And John laughed again. Empty, lost. Sherlock used to like John's laugh. He hated it now.

"Fine. Why not?" Defeat. Oh John.

But Baker Street. With John. Good. A bit very good.

* * *

Of course it was Sherlock who wasn't dead after all. Of course it was Sherlock and not Mary, and how was that fair? Good, sweet, lovely Mary who wouldn't even accidentally not pay for a loaf of bread at Tescos, how was it fair that she was the one who stayed dead. And worse, how was it fair that he was glad to see Sherlock standing at his door.

Sherlock moved as if he was about leave and this was so beyond what was acceptable that John shouted, "No!"

Sherlock, albeit a Sherlock with short dyed red hair, jeans, a tight t-shirt and short leather jacket, was alive. Alive and in his terrible little bedsit.

"Don't you dare go. You come back after being dead for three years, exchange three words, don't you dare go now."

"You want me to stay?" And Sherlock actually looked pleased. As if he didn't think John would want him, really? Really, if he'd known the things John had thought those first few desperate months after – no, he wouldn't think that then.

John let out a breath. "Yes," he said tightly. "Yes. I want you to sit your skinny arse down on that chair and eat some bloody take out and drink some tea and tell me exactly what the bleeding fuck you did and where you've been."

And Sherlock snorted a laugh and quirked a smile and something in that made a spot of tiny light inside the murk of John's chest. He flopped down elegantly on the second hand metal framed chair as instructed and John watched him sideways, still half thinking he was in the middle of some sort of hallucination while he made tea and then ordered a pizza on his mobile.

And then he sat, opposite Sherlock, drank tea and ate pizza that felt like cardboard in his mouth. And listened and for a moment forgot that life was complete shit.

* * *

"Ok, that was brilliant." John was shaking his head and smiling, a nearly smile that _almost_ made its way into John's eyes and to the corners of his mouth, but it was the best smile Sherlock had seen from him since he'd arrived. And then John breathed out and the emptiness fell over his face like a curtain. Sherlock watched him swallow and look away. Mary. He was thinking of Mary. He felt a spark of jealousy that he deleted – irrational.

"Wait until I tell you about the fake black opal in Western Australia."

And John smiled politely but that longed for spark of light was gone.

Sherlock toyed with his tea cup. "I missed you John," he said quietly.

"Then why didn't you tell me? Why let me think…God, you have no idea-" Again, he should have sounded angry, instead he just sounded tired.

"Because I cared about you and it made you a target. I had to fake my death…it was safer for everyone if I just stayed dead."

"But now you're back? Suddenly everything's changed?"

Sherlock wasn't sure about this himself. It bothered him that his reasons were so nebulous, so irrational. "You stopped being ok," he said finally. "It didn't seem fair for one person to lose two people one after the other-"

John looked away. "Three," he said shortly. "There was a baby." He looked back, directly at Sherlock. "So you thought you'd brighten up my life by coming back from the dead?"

"Didn't it?"

"Has anyone ever told you, you have a massively large ego?" John's mouth twisted, the closest Sherlock thought he'd get to a smile.

"I have been made aware that it's very robust." Sherlock offered his own smile. John's expression softened slightly but he didn't smile back.

There was silence and Sherlock watched as John tore absently at the lid of the pizza box. Boredom, ennui from John was intolerable. Sherlock jumped to his feet. Work was the best antidote to depression. It was a little early but… "Come John. It's late and the game is on."

"What? Where?" Ah, that spark, just for a moment.

"Baker Street. Moriarty's associate, Sebastian Moran, knows I'm here. I saw his compatriot, Parker, a skeevy little petty criminal, fond of the garrotte, lurking around Baker Street, watching for me when I went to see Mrs Hudson this morning."

"Mrs Hudson? He won't-" Concern – that was a start.

"No, I made sure of that, but I can't be sure he hadn't already told Moran I'd been by. Mrs Hudson has been sent to her sister's until this blows over. So, if you've had quite enough to eat, shall we?"

"Uh, right. Yes. Why not?" John stood up obediently but without the excitement and eagerness Sherlock remembered. His mouth was drawn into a tight line. Well, he would just have to be excited enough for the both of them. Hopefully some of it would wear off.

* * *

Sherlock texted Lestrade as they took a cab to Baker Street and the Detective Inspector was waiting for them around the corner when they arrived. It should have bothered John that he was apparently the last person to find out that Sherlock wasn't dead but that would require a level of caring that was beyond him at this point. Sherlock was back and that's how it was.

They waited in the dark at Camden House across from 221B Baker Street, Sherlock radiating barely suppressed excitement as they kept watch over Baker Street. John felt anticipation slowly start to unfurl within his veins as he was drawn back into the buzz and thrill of _being_ with Sherlock. The feeling brought back a rush of memories that made his breath catch and the familiarity of it _ached. _He felt the press of Sherlock's arm against his shoulder as they stood in the dark.

And then Sherlock pressed John back into the shadows as Moran crept into the room and set up a sniper's nest at the window.

There was a fight. And Sherlock ended up getting nearly throttled and John ended up hitting Moran over the head with the butt of his gun. And then Lestrade came running up and arrested him, not for the attempted murder of Sherlock but for killing Ron Adair.

John felt as if he were observing himself from above as he stood and watched Sherlock do the great reveal and explain how Moran was responsible for the recent high profile murder of Ron Adair.

After Lestrade had taken Moran away, they stood on Baker Street in front of their old doorway.

"I should get home," John said. The thought of taking the stairs back up to their old flat felt suddenly suffocating.

"Come up?" Sherlock asked, and there was something hopeful in his expression that made John look away and follow him up the stairs anyway.

Sherlock's paraphernalia was all in place again and Mrs Hudson must have given it all a good clean. The flat looked so much like it had before that John had to just stop for a moment because it felt as if the past three years hadn't happened. And that was unacceptable.

Sherlock shrugged off the too short leather jacket and pulled on his old dressing gown and then threw himself down onto his old armchair. The too familiar scene looked odd with his short, red hair, and John squinted at him. In some ways it made it better – that the three years, Mary, had happened after all because here Sherlock was and he was _different_.

John carefully sat opposite. "All right," he said. "Remind me how brilliant you are. How did you know about Moran, Adair -" he waved a hand. "All that."

And Sherlock did and John was overwhelmed all over again by how incredibly brilliant the man was and also by how _alive_ he became when he was in the throes of his own genius.

"God you are amazing," John said as Sherlock reached the denouement of his explanation.

And Sherlock positively beamed. And John coughed and looked away because that beam, the full force of Sherlock's approval and pleasure was too much to bear. It didn't seem appropriate somehow.

"I should go," John said. "I'll bring my things over in the morning." He didn't move. Suddenly the thought of walking away from Sherlock, letting him out of his sight was untenable.

"You're bed is still here. It's late," Sherlock noted.

So John didn't move. Sherlock got up and fetched his violin. John watched as Sherlock caressed the instrument lovingly, cleaned it and applied rosin to the bow and sighed with pleasure as he lifted it to his shoulder and began to play. It was familiar and missed and it was an old version of home and it made John ache. He leant his head back against the arm chair and closed his eyes as he let the sound of the violin wash over him.

John must have fallen asleep because suddenly he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. "Go to bed John," the deep voice was unexpected beside his ear and for a moment he had to remind himself where he was.

"Mmm?" said John, rousing himself enough to stagger to the sofa. "This is fine."

"I'll be playing for a while, it's been too long-"

"It's ok. I like it. Know you're here."

"All right."

And he fell back to sleep, curled up on the sofa listening to the haunting tune from Sherlock's violin.

He stirred again in the cold of sometime past midnight. The violin had stopped and he realised that was what had woken him. He sat up with a fright, and urgently located Sherlock, sitting by the window watching him.

"When did you last sleep?" John asked.

Sherlock took a moment to answer. "Three days ago. In Ontario."

John got to his feet and walked over to Sherlock and grasped his hand. "Come on, idiot, bed."

He pulled Sherlock up and across the floor to Sherlock's room and pushed him onto the bed before falling into it beside him. He turned onto his side, facing away from Sherlock, and tugged the duvet over himself. He heard Sherlock shift down beside him, felt him faff around with the duvet before settling down. John closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him again.

"Good night, John," said Sherlock.

"Night, Sherlock," said John.

"Huh," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"I'm not used to hearing my name again."

This thought made John's chest feel tight. "Oh. Right. What were you going by then?"

"Peter Sigerson."

"Hah, what some sort of Swedish crime writer?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly at that. "Norwegian actually."

They were both quiet for a moment.

"So this ginger thing, is that a permanent change?" It seemed easier to talk to Sherlock, here in the dark. It was as if he was still a figment of John's imagination, and this was yet another imagined conversation about something that had happened in his day.

"It will grow out. You don't like it?"

"It sort of suits you actually."

"Huh. I thought I looked better brunette."

"You look younger with it short."

"Really?" He sounded pleased.

John snorted. "You are so vain."

There was another pause and John listened to Sherlock's breathing.

"Sherlock?"

"John?"

"I missed you."

He heard Sherlock turn over and then felt his hand on his shoulder. John reached up and covered Sherlock's hand with his own for a brief moment before the other man withdrew his. John slipped his own hand down again and closed his eyes, trying not to think.

John woke up to the blissful feeling of a warm body curled around his, warm breath against his neck and for a wonderful moment he snuggled back against Mary before reality crashed into him and he realised it was Sherlock's arm wrapped around his waist, Sherlock's breath against his ear. John froze. Oh. And Sherlock's hard on, about bum level. The concept that Sherlock Holmes got a morning stiffy like everyone else was mind boggling. John twisted around under Sherlock's arm, trying to extricate himself without causing anyone any embarrassment. Sherlock grunted and his grip tightened. And who would have thought Sherlock was a cuddler? Although given his obliviousness to personal space John should have expected it. John managed to wriggle/slide his way out of bed.

John showered and dressed and then made himself some breakfast. If pre-faked-death Sherlock's habits were anything to go by the idiot probably hadn't slept in days and would be making up for it now. He watched some morning telly, and then called Mrs Hudson to tell her everything was fine and that they were back in Baker Street.

He would stay with Sherlock because it was something to do and he needed that, more than anything.

He considered going back to his flat to pack up his things but he didn't want to risk Sherlock waking and disappearing. The idea of not being able to find him again was unbearable. John went and stood in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom and watched him for a moment.

His sharp angles and curves were softer in sleep. He looked almost angelic, with those full curved lips, the dark brush of his eyelashes against his cheeks. The short red hair was strange but it did make him look younger. It made John feel strangely protective and then guilty because it reminded him of Mary and he'd forgotten her for a moment because of Sherlock.

**to be continued**


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

John was back at Baker Street. But he wasn't the old John from before. This John was quiet, withdrawn. This John didn't complain about fingers in the sink or a lack of milk; he just let out a deep breath as if it was to be expected. And if Sherlock inadvertently said something insensitive then his only clue was when John stiffened, then shook his head, breathed, and left the room for a little while. This John went to work, didn't ask Sherlock what he was doing and didn't answer text messages if he was on duty. This John did not blog. And if Sherlock invited him to come and help on a case he politely declined. This John hardly slept, went to his room but paced the floor, tossed and turned in bed, got up, sat in the living room again for a while before retreating again and then returning until finally Sherlock went to bed and then he'd crawl in beside him and finally sleep. Sherlock didn't say anything about this. At least John was sleeping. And John was near. If Sherlock wondered how this fitted into the previously established parameters of their friendship he didn't comment. Those parameters had changed three years ago when he decided to leave without telling John. And he brushed aside the memory of a thought, borne from many lonely nights, of pressing John down onto such a bed. It would not be welcome.

This John _did_ sit in the living room at night, staring at the fire or bad television or reading a book very slowly. He did listen as Sherlock expounded on some idea, or put down his book and shut his eyes and smile lightly when Sherlock started playing his violin. This John did the grocery shopping and cooked and pottered around tidying the kitchen around Sherlock's experiments. This John sometimes smiled but then seemed to remember himself and it was quickly tidied away.

It was like having half a John and it was driving Sherlock mad. He didn't know what to do to break John out of the careful shell he'd formed around himself – he'd tried involving him in a case, tried aggravating him (John used to be delightful to aggravate). Where was the yelling, the lecturing, the blunt comments about his social skills? There was only that tightness to John's jaw, the tight line of his mouth, around his eyes that told Sherlock that he was angry, annoyed, unhappy. The tightness was always there, except when it wasn't and that was worse because then Sherlock caught a glimpse of carefully managed pain. There was no laughing, no amused smirks, no wonderful boyish grins. Sherlock did not do kid gloves, he did not walk on egg shells, having a fragile John was not something he was equipped to handle. He didn't want to worry about John, that's why he came back, so he'd know John was well and safe and happy.

And Sherlock himself was having difficulties adjusting to life again. There was tediousness with Mycroft to deal with, paperwork and dull, pointless blather while his legal death was dealt with. Thankfully his name had been cleared well over two years ago. All the same, Mycroft had a hand in that too, so he would be insufferable for _years _over it. And Sherlock had to put his foot down about the trust fund that he'd left to John as the sole beneficiary. Technically if he wasn't dead the money should have been returned, but Sherlock glared Mycroft down on that point and since John had invested it sensibly and it wouldn't be spent on narcotics he agreed to sort that out as well.

He hated his hair. He'd hated it from the moment he'd shorn it off and if he could have willed it to grow quicker he would have. And the comments he got whenever he saw someone again for the first time were beginning to grate. When dark roots began to show beneath the red he resolutely dyed it all brown again.

That wasn't all. Sometimes he'd forget that John was there, that he wasn't alone anymore. Sometimes he'd stay out working on a case all night and despite discussing the problem with the imaginary John in his head, he was still surprised when he remembered it was Baker Street he was returning to at the end of the night, and that John was sitting at the table eating breakfast when he walked in the door. He'd also find himself surprised with all John's little domesticities – he was so used to having to source food when he finally remembered to eat, that having milk in the fridge and bread in the cupboard was a novelty. Of course it was also _annoying_ having someone else asking him things and nagging him to eat and wondering where he'd been but it was minor compared to the aching loneliness of not having John, ever.

It was a good thing when he woke next to John. It meant he didn't have that instant pang of loneliness and then an urgent need to locate John and make sure that he hadn't, actually, left when Sherlock wasn't looking.

* * *

John cleaned his teeth and got into his pyjamas. He stared at himself in the mirror. A lined and tired face looked back at him. God, when did he get so old? He felt old. He felt so tired as if just breathing was hard.

Sherlock was back and they were back at 221B Baker Street. As if nothing had ever happened. He should be glad but he just felt like crap for any moment when he forgot about Mary for a second. And he was angry, despite rationally knowing that Sherlock's reasons were sound, it still hurt that he wasn't trusted enough with the secret, that Sherlock had found his friendship to be a liability. He couldn't trust Sherlock anymore. He couldn't trust him to be there, ever. Every day when he came home from work he mentally breathed a sigh of relief when Sherlock was still there. And those nights when the other man stayed out late working on a case and didn't even bother to text – those nights John didn't sleep at all and then the only thing that stopped him screaming in anger when Sherlock walked in the door was the complete surprise and then pleasure on Sherlock's face when he saw John sitting there, waiting.

He couldn't be involved with Sherlock's cases. He couldn't _be_ that John anymore, the John who'd followed after Sherlock faithfully, unquestioning…trusting. It required too much of him, required something that he couldn't give. Because when he _had, _that one time when they'd captured Moran, he'd forgotten about Mary and that wasn't acceptable. It reminded him too much of the times he'd left women at restaurants or forgotten dates to go chasing after Sherlock and Mary was too good for that. He wouldn't forget her for an adventure with Sherlock.

He'd been sleeping in Sherlock's bed. And wasn't that just one of his nasty little fantasies come true. The depression and misery after Sherlock had died, when how much he felt for the man came crashing down on him. When he would have done anything just to tell him -

But time passed. He stopped thinking about Sherlock every second. He healed. He met Mary. It felt wrong that he would do the same to Mary in time, move on. Was it wrong that it was Mary he wanted here alive and not Sherlock? Would he wish Sherlock dead again if it would bring back Mary?

After a week he'd stopped pretending that he didn't need to be next to Sherlock to sleep. He popped his head into the living room where Sherlock was lying sideways on his armchair, long legs hooked oddly over one arm, reading one of John's medical journals. "Bathroom's yours." And then he went to bed, in Sherlock's room, climbing into it and shifting over onto the right when he heard Sherlock cleaning his teeth. He rolled onto his side and tried to go to sleep. After five minutes he heard Sherlock come out of the bathroom, open the door and then felt him climb into bed beside him.

John closed his eyes and slept.

As usual he woke up to find at least two of Sherlock's limbs encroaching on his personal space. He didn't mind, it was comforting to feel some human contact and he knew it was the closest he'd get to a hug from Sherlock. He shut his eyes and willed himself to go back to sleep. Being awake was fraught with pain and confusion and guilt and anger and a thousand other conflicting emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, so he locked them away and felt nothing instead. He closed his eyes on focused on two simple truths, Sherlock was back and there was a warm body next to him.

* * *

Sherlock woke next to John Watson and felt happy. This simple fact centred everything, from the way John would look at him with that bland, emptiness colouring every expression, to the misery he saw every time John's careful mask slipped and the irritation he felt at feeling the need to be _careful_ around John.

John being here made him happy. He didn't want John to be unhappy any more. He flexed his arm, draped as it was over John's waist, his leg was hooked over John's calf and he rubbed the top of his foot languidly against the sole of John's. Touching John made him feel calm. He'd slept more than he had in a long time, indulging John's need for sleep. Here, in this room, with John, he could forget that the tattered ends of Moriarty's web still flicked close to the people that were important. He could forget that he didn't want to care, that he was making himself weak and putting John in danger just by being here.

It was a luxury, indulging the desire he had always felt for John, but had usually tamped down, allowing the feeling to curl through him, enjoying for this brief moment the pleasure of anticipation and need. He breathed in, the scent of John's shampoo, John's soap, just John filling his nostrils. It made the happiness inside his chest expand to a glowing brightness. He studied the way John's sandy hair curled about the back of his ear, the way his neck curved into the soft hollow of his collarbone and then disappeared into his pyjama top. He felt the solid realness of John's body under this arm, the hardness of his shin against Sherlock's calf. He wanted to touch the soft fine hairs on the back of John's neck.

He heard John's breathing shift as he stirred into wakefulness. Sherlock stilled, waiting for the inevitable moment when John would realise who he was with and slip out of bed. The thought of this happening again, this morning, was suddenly unbearable.

But then John sighed and shifted ever so slightly back into him, _snuggled_ even.

And Sherlock thought that maybe, for once, sex might solve something. He bent his head forward resting his forehead against the back of John's head and nuzzled soft blonde-grey-brown hair for a moment before pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck.

He heard John's breath catch, but then John exhaled and he stayed in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock slid his hand up from John's waist and ran his fingertips lightly over those fine tantalising hairs along the side of this neck, he followed with his lips, soft, experimental kisses, tastes as John lay still, shivering with each touch, breath shaking. He returned his hand to John's waist, sliding it up under cloth to glide over John's belly, his hips, ribs (too skinny, needs to eat more), tracing the light line of hairs that led from navel to pyjama bottoms. John sighed then and shifted back against him and Sherlock involuntarily pressed his hips forward, the sensation of pressure against his growing arousal causing his breath to hitch and for John to let out a small sound at the contact.

He breathed in the scent of John – subtly different now, pressed his lips to the pulse point on John's neck, felt the heightened flutter of his heartbeat. Sherlock slid his hand under the waist band of John's pyjama trousers, found coarse curls and hardening flesh, soft and silky smooth to touch.

"Sherlock…"the word was breathed. John's hand found his, rested on top.

"Yes John?" Sherlock said in a low voice, just under John's ear. Don't make me stop. Don't ask me-

"You want…"

He heard John lick his lips. And then John twisted under him, towards him and caught his mouth in a proper kiss.

Sherlock stilled, just breathing, tasting, feeling.

"John," he groaned, the feel of John's body, turned under his, groin against his, legs against his legs, a hand sliding through his hair, mouth against his mouth, tongue against his, breathing together-

And then they were grinding against each other, hands fumbling, holding, touching, lips tasting, panted breaths and half moans.

It wasn't enough. Not enough. He needed- Sherlock pulled back, up, enough to fumble at John's buttons, pull his shirt open, and then back to tasting, every glorious inch. The scar, nipples, hair here – here – navel, hips, softness of his stomach. Pushing trousers, underpants down, and that flesh, John's flesh, erect, proud, wanting. Cupping, holding, a taste, another, feeling John respond – buck slightly, twist a little, a hand – on his hair, rubbing his shoulder, gentle, and John in his mouth, firm and needy. And Sherlock needed, he needed and wanted and he rutted against the sheets as he moaned around John and sucked and tasted and took.

John was groaning, swearing, gripping his shoulder and Sherlock wouldn't relent, wouldn't until tangy sharpness hit his tongue and John was shuddering underneath him and he buried his head in John's thigh and rocked as his own climax shook through him.

* * *

The world came back to John. He felt Sherlock shift up and collapse beside him on the bed. He turned his head and saw Sherlock staring back at him with blue green eyes. Light was invading the room, slanting in shafts through the gaps in the thick curtains, falling on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's face was flushed, lips swollen, his hair (dyed dark brown again) a riot of short sweaty curls. His expression was open, satiated, his full lips curved into the kind of hopeful smile that made John's heart hurt. He stared into those blue green, green blue eyes. Saw them looking right back into his. Don't think. Don't think. His heart beat in his ears. Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock's face. Sherlock. Sherlock. Don't think. Don't-

"John." Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"Don't," said John. "Just- just leave it." And he sat up, pulled up his underwear and pyjamas and left the room.

He shut himself in the bathroom after going to the loo, turned on the shower and stripped off the last of his clothes.

Don't think.

He stepped into the shower and let the water sluice over him.

Don't think.

Everything was a fog. There was too much noise in his mind. Sherlock and Mary and sex and guilt and Mary and Mary was dead and Sherlock was not and Sherlock was alive and Sherlock just gave him a fucking blow job and he liked it he wanted it and he didn't think about Mary and he forgot Mary and did he love Sherlock and he couldn't think and he didn't know and what what what what what….

"FUCK!"

John slammed his fist against the tiles. "OW bloody hell!"

He sank down onto the floor of the shower stall, nursing his stinging hand, water running down his face, his shoulders, washing the blood from his knuckles down to swirl red into the drain.

* * *

Sherlock watched John leave the bedroom with a painful feeling in his stomach. Ah. That was not the response he was hoping for. His throat felt thick. He could still taste John in his mouth.

He pulled off his sticky t-shirt and lay back on the bed again, looking up at the ceiling as he entered his mind palace and sorted through the experience, filing and cataloguing sensations, expressions, emotions. He wondered if he should delete the entire thing. It would make things less awkward should John wish to never speak of it again. Would John wish to pretend it never happened? This thought caused an unexpected amount of pain.

And how had he felt about it? More enjoyable than anticipated. Something that could bear repeating. What would it feel like to have John's mouth on him? More? To be inside John, to have John inside him? And less too – kissing John had been revelatory in the emotions it had evoked, the neural chemicals it produced. Kissing John warranted further exploration. Simply embracing within the parameters of an established sexual relationship would be less fraught as well. It would be perfectly acceptable. Sherlock did like hugging. And cuddling. Especially in bed. With John.

So many experiences yet to be had – it seemed a shame to just…not. And the way John had looked at him afterwards, as if Sherlock was the only person in the world, as if he could see everything there was to see- all Sherlock's _feelings _laid bare.

No. Best not to indulge any further. John's actions had been clear.

He had seen the exact moment when it had all changed, when John's expression had abruptly closed down and a moment later left the bed.

He heard the toilet flush and then the bathroom door close. The shower started.

Sherlock had just shut his eyes when he heard John swear loudly, followed closely by an unpleasant thump, and soon after that by a cry of pain and another expletive.

* * *

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: **argh, I've written and rewritten bits of this scene so many times I don't know if it works or not. concrit welcome, please?  
**Edited: **to fix a couple of typos and to add description + one line of dialogue to the very end. Thanks to Shadowturquoise for the suggestion & concrit! :)

**Part 3**

The bathroom door opened and John looked up to see Sherlock, dressed in only his pyjama pants, beside the awful tropical fish shower curtain. Sherlock raised an eyebrow then simply stepped into the tiny shower cubicle with him and sat down next to him under the spray, knees and shoulders touching in the small space.

John stared at his hand and Sherlock took it from him, turning it, examining the bruised knuckles.

"Idiot. You might have broken it."

"I'm not that stupid."

"Hmm…debateable."

* * *

Sherlock held John's hand gently and watched him. Watched the rivulets of water making their way down from hair dark with wet, sliding over his temple, his cheek, to join at his jaw and then run down his neck and shoulder. He resisted the urge to push John's hair back, push the water away.

John drew his hand back from Sherlock and tilted his head back against the shower wall. "You know I wouldn't have looked at Mary twice if you had still been here. You- you always overwhelmed everything else. But – I'm glad I met her, she was exactly what I needed, and turned out to be everything I wanted and I could have been happy with her forever I think."

Sherlock swallowed back the bitter lump. Ridiculous to be jealous. "I know. I saw you with her. It convinced me I was doing the right thing." He paused. "I wanted you to have… something normal."

John shook his head, rolling it back and forward against the tiles. "I never- if you had said that to me, if you had _asked_ I would never have said that's what I wanted. But that's why - it's not fair for Mary to just be my second choice, she was more than that. I could have had an ordinary life, if it was with her."

"Life is unfair," said Sherlock after a moment, because he felt he ought to say something but hating the empty truism all the same.

John let out a ragged laugh that became a hiccough and then a sob and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking and ragged sounds being torn from his throat. Sherlock swallowed again. At last, John was showing some sort of emotion, but all this _feeling_ disconcerted Sherlock, he didn't want to be witness to it, he didn't want to be drawn in and made to share it. He felt useless. He reached out tentatively and placed his hand on John's shaking shoulder and waited for it to pass. Finally, John drew a ragged breath, scrubbed his face with his hands and leant his head back against the shower wall, eyes closed.

"I wish- if you hadn't left, if I hadn't met her, if I hadn't made her love me, if I hadn't married her, if she hadn't been driving meet me for lunch on that day at that exact time-"

"Yes." Sherlock knew how John felt. It was how he had felt on the roof of Bart's. If he hadn't met John, if he hadn't dragged him along on his cases, if he hadn't let Moriarty see-.

John was looking at him. Really looking at him. "That's why you did it? You thought I'd be better off if I'd never met you?"

"You would be safe. You would meet someone nice and you'd be boring and normal and _fine._"

John leant his head back against the wall again, no longer looking at Sherlock. "Ah. It never occurred to you that I liked not being fine, that it was worth it, to be with you?"

A small sound escaped Sherlock's throat, his chest felt as if it would burst and he looked down. "I would have really jumped John, if you had died."

"Don't." The word was short and sharp. "Don't ever say that." For a moment there was silence save for the hiss of the shower spray. Then John spoke and his voice was fierce. "And don't ever, ever leave me like that again. Promise me now, or I swear to God, I will get up and walk out of this flat and you'll never see me again. I will not go through that again."

The threat made Sherlock's blood run cold, even if he knew he could always find John, always convince him later, the thought that John would not want to see him again was dreadful.

"I promise."

He pushed wet hair back from his forehead where it was starting to run water into his eyes. "I'm hopeless at relationships John, you know that. I'd never had a best friend to lose- That's why- I didn't know I'd miss you so much. I didn't realise it would affect you so much. I don't know – I thought you'd just…be glad to be rid of me really."

John laughed, a brittle sound. "Nope. Not glad at all."

"No. Sorry."

* * *

The water was starting to get cold. John sighed. "I'm tired Sherlock. I'm tired of trying not to be miserable, I'm tired of trying not to be angry, I'm tired of feeling guilty."

Sherlock let out a sharp laugh. "Staying alive," he said, enunciating each syllable.

John looked at him but Sherlock didn't elaborate. "Yeah, that's about the sum of it." He sighed. "Maybe I should just take my pills...hm..._and everything will be alright_," he said, finishing on a half remembered lyric.

"Reference?"

"Yes. Um...that band. Everclear."

"Huh." They were both silent for a moment. Sherlock thumped his head back against the shower wall. "What can I do? Tell me what to do John."

"God, I thought you were the one with the plan." If Sherlock didn't know then what hope did he have?

"My plan only extended to 'come back and cheer up John'. I seem to have failed at that epically."

John glanced sideways at Sherlock, Sherlock sitting next to him on the floor of the shower, his pyjama pants sodden, rapidly cooling water streaming over them. Post-coital. He caught Sherlock's eye and snorted a laugh. And he must have looked equally ridiculous because Sherlock sniggered as well and then they were both giggling like idiots, sitting on the shower floor.

John leant his head back against the shower tiles. He shut his eyes. "Oh I don't know. I'll give you an A for effort. Blow jobs usually cheer most blokes up."

"Oh it was all right? I hadn't done that before."

This made John smile. "Really? Huh. It was rather good."

"Thanks. Any time."

And John raised his eyebrow at that and glanced at Sherlock. They smirked at each other. And then they started sniggering again.

"Oh God. I'm sorry, I'm not usually that crap post-sex. Usually I cuddle and whisper sweet nothings."

"Hm, I don't know, running off and punching the shower tiles was endearingly original."

John snorted and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't."

John flexed his sore hand and winced. "Right, well." He reached up and shut off the shower. "Breakfast?"

Sherlock stood and reached down a hand to help John up. "Yes."  
John took Sherlock's hand and stood. Sherlock's hand was cold but firm and tangible and _real. _He was also suddenly aware that he was naked and Sherlock might as well have been and also, that they'd just had sex. John let go and grabbed a towel, throwing it to Sherlock. "You're freezing, don't go and get hypothermia on me." And then he wrapped a towel around his waist and left the bathroom quickly, telling himself that he had to get ice for his hand.

Dry and dressed, John made tea and eggs and toast and put a plate down in front of Sherlock who had cracked open his laptop and was checking his email. John felt better than he had in a long time. He looked fondly at Sherlock, despite his short hair, the scene was like a comfortable old jumper, familiar and warm and carrying happy, comforting associations. How many mornings had it been exactly like this? Him and Sherlock, toast and tea and jam, and Sherlock peering at something while absently consuming whatever John had put in front of him. For the first time since coming back to Baker Street he let himself enjoy the old without feeling guilty. It was ok to want this, it didn't mean mornings with Mary were any less.

"Oh," Sherlock said, his tone interested.

"Oh?" asked John, Sherlock's tone triggering a shot of anticipation.

"Case."

"Interesting?"

"Might be."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

John poked at his eggs with a fork then glanced up at Sherlock. "Well it's Sunday, I haven't got work. Maybe I could come along?"

Sherlock's eyes locked with John's. "If you'd like."

"I would."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth turned up into a smile that reached his eyes. "Good." He stood up. "Get a move on John, those mummified toes aren't going to wait all day."

**tbc**


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4 and here we have smut.**

It was night before they returned to the flat, shutting the door behind them, and leaning against it, panting and grinning.

That had been _fun. _John felt alive. He looked at Sherlock, so utterly brilliant. He had a new big coat and that coat and his cheek bones and the starkness of his white skin against his dark hair, tight purple shirt – bloody sexy cool, damn him. His heart beat faster still, his old infatuation with Sherlock melding with the attraction he always felt after one of their near death escapes and now fuelled by the memory of what they'd done that morning. If John was ever going to give another bloke head, now would be the time.

And then Sherlock looked back at him, face alive with the buzz of his own genius and the excitement of adventure. Lips parted as he dragged in breath, cheeks pink, sharp eyes bright. He was magnificent.

"You are amazing," breathed John. "Absolutely fucking amazing."

Sherlock's lips pulled into a grin and he let out a breathless laugh. And John dragged him down and kissed him. And how many times had this crossed his mind when they'd been in this situation before? Another of his secret fantasies.

It was a deep kiss, John fisted his hand in Sherlock's lapel, while he cupped his face with the other, holding him firmly as he took his beautiful mouth, drew his lips across those full perfect ones, nose against nose, felt Sherlock's tongue against his. Sherlock's hand was in his hair, holding him close in return. He pushed Sherlock back against the door.

John was growing hard now and when he pressed up against Sherlock, hips against thigh, he could feel Sherlock's arousal pressing into him too. It turned him on, that Sherlock wanted him back. He reached between them rubbing the palm of his hand against the growing hardness in Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock whimpered against his mouth and John drew away, panting, heart thudding and rested his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder while he tugged Sherlock's belt undone, unzipped his fly, closed his hand around a cock that wasn't his own. Sherlock gripped John tightly, his breath hot and ragged against John's ear.

"Yes?" John asked, his voice ragged, moving his hand, imagining it was his own cock and what he would like.

"John." The word was strangled, broken, it did something to John's insides and he pressed his hips hard against Sherlock. He gripped Sherlock's neck and dragged his lips over his jaw.

"You are bloody brilliant," he said, voice rough, wanting. He dropped to a crouch in front of Sherlock and trying not to think too much about anything, about any of this, he gripped Sherlock's hip with one hand and held his hard prick with the other while he took it in his mouth. All thoughts of 'there's a cock in my mouth' were firmly ignored and he focused on doing what he thought _he_ might like, if it was reversed, imagining it was his own cock, where he'd like to be licked, sucked, the pace, the pressure. Sherlock had done this for him. It was only fair to return the favour. And, bloody hell, didn't he just want to do this?

He looked up and saw Sherlock staring down at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes wide, one of his hands was fisted in John's collar, the other clenched against the wall. Beautiful. Sherlock was beautiful and wanting _him _and he wanted to do this_._ A moan escaped his throat and Sherlock shuddered at the vibration and John stopped thinking.

It wasn't as easy as it looked (reason they called it a job probably) but something about being this _personal_, something about being on his knees for _Sherlock_, hit home with his libido. He was hard, fuck, aching, and he let go of Sherlock's hip to undo his own trousers, free his own erection and stroke himself. And that just made it hotter still. Fuck, so dirty, wanking off while he sucked _Sherlock's_ cock. A secret, sordid, unacknowledged fantasy. Sherlock's grip was harder now, and he was making beautiful, needy sounds and John heard whimpering moans coming out his own mouth too.

"John," Sherlock gasped. "Please. I'm-" John looked up at him, saw his eyes go wide and then flutter shut and a beautiful, desperate moan came from his lips and then he was shuddering and coming and John involuntarily swallowed to keep from gagging. He sat back on his heels, panting, painfully hard, holding onto Sherlock's trousers for support and wiped at his mouth with his hand.

Sherlock opened his eyes and suddenly looked so achingly vulnerable that John reached up and took his hand and then Sherlock dropped to his knees with him on the floor and kissed him.

* * *

Sherlock had not expected this. He'd assumed John's interest this morning had been an aberration, a cathartic release for John's emotions, and judging from John's reaction immediately after, that it would not be repeated. It was probably just the adrenalin, a side effect of nearly being killed, comrades in arms, etcetera, but he'd looked at John and John had looked at him like he _wanted_ him and then suddenly they had been kissing. And then John, _his John,_ _John Watson, _had dropped to his knees and proceeded to fellate him. It had been unimaginably pleasurable.

Sherlock felt his breathing and pulse rate return to near normal levels and he opened his eyes. His skin still tingled and his penis felt almost painfully sensitive. He looked down, unsure of how John would react, now that the deed was done. He was half expecting disgust, self-loathing but instead he found John sitting back on his heels, decidedly rumpled, erection proud and wanton, his dark eyes looking up at him with open desire - a picture of debauchery and lust. And then John put his hand on his and Sherlock took it and fell to his knees before him.

"Beautiful, perfect John," he breathed, cupping his face, kissing his lips, his cheeks, his jaw. And he heard John moan and felt him start to stroke himself, hard and fast. Sherlock pressed his face into the crook of John's neck and closed his hand over John's, moving with him. He mouthed at the soft skin at John's neck, breathed in the smell of sex and John and himself.

"You are perfection, my wonderful John," he murmured. He could feel the tension in John's neck as he approached climax, increasing the pace of their joined hands.

John arched his neck, throwing his head back, gasping and bucking up into their hands. "Sherlock, god, Sherlock, coming, oh…"

And then John groaned and shuddered between them, spilling into their joined hands and collapsed against Sherlock, spent.

After a moment John shifted back and did his trousers up. Sherlock was shaking. He moved back as well and after an experimental lick, (slightly different taste this time) wiped his hand on his shirt, for want of something better, and then with trembling hands tucked himself away and zipped up his fly. He sat back against the wall next to John, both of them still breathing heavily.

He felt…that had been…_John_ had been- the glowing feeling in his chest was too much, Sherlock's chest hurt, his arms felt painful, heavy. Heart attack? No…this was psychosomatic. Sherlock bent forward and put his head against his knees, taking deep breaths. Panic attack? He felt John's hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock?"

Too much. Too much data. Too much. He sat up, got to his feet, brushing John away. He needed to move.

"That – that was, good," he said, not looking at John, sucking in air, trying to walk off the overwhelming emotions.

"I- yeah–" he heard John start to speak, but he couldn't take in any more data. "Right. Um. Well I've got work in the morning, better go to bed. You sure you're ok?"

"Yes, yes, fine!" snapped Sherlock. For fuck's sake, just _go, _he thought, don't try and – no sentiment _please._

"Right. Good night then."

And finally John left and Sherlock sagged onto the sofa and could _think. _No. Still too much. He sprang to his feet, threw off his coat, grabbed his violin and started to play. He played fast and desperately, pouring the feelings that were crowding him into the instrument, into the music. Tore it out and flung it into sound.

He tried to forget about John Watson and the havoc the man was playing with his emotions. Stupid, stupid. He _knew_ the devastating effects of _love_, of the effect of the neurochemicals produced by sexual relations, yet he'd allowed himself to be tempted, had thought himself immune. John on his knees. John's lips on him. John flushed and needy- Well, he'd wondered what it would be like to have John touch him, John's mouth on him. It had been perfection and now his emotions were defying all attempts to control them. John had drawn out everything that he had kept carefully tucked away. He craved John. Wanted to touch him, and taste him and crawl inside his skin-

But John still loved Mary. John still harboured complicated resentments about Sherlock's death, that Sherlock didn't really understand. He didn't, couldn't, feel what Sherlock felt. It would be sensible to stop, nip this in the bud before he became any more enthralled, but the idea of never touching, kissing, tasting, holding John and being held and touched and kissed and wanted by John was unbearably painful. It was addiction at its finest.

John had enjoyed their intimacies. And despite everything he was still here, he was still Sherlock's friend. Sherlock had that much, at least.

His playing slowed, the tension easing with each note. John had been happier today. The moment in the shower had obviously been cathartic. He had finally come with Sherlock on a case and it had been wonderful and so much like _before_ that Sherlock had forgotten for a moment that anything had happened at all. And then, when John had turned to Sherlock, right before they'd kissed, his eyes had danced, the fire had been there again. And he'd looked at Sherlock as if he was everything wonderful and magnificent. That had been Sherlock's undoing.

**tbc **


	5. Chapter 5

**AN:** ok for those of you who saw my end note (since redacted) on the last chapter, I lied. This chapter, not so long and not so angsty as originally planned. anyway I've been agonising about plot and moving things around and rewriting and so on, but if in doubt, post. So. I present:

**Part 5**

John curled up in his own bed and stared at the wedding picture of him and Mary that he kept on his bedside table.

Today had been…God…he'd kissed Sherlock, had sex with Sherlock, _twice. _And this morning, having a meltdown, sitting in the shower with Sherlock, he'd finally, finally been able to say some of the things that had been choking him for so long. He flexed his hand, it didn't hurt anymore, the knuckles were still a bit sore to touch but nothing broken. He'd gone on a case and they could have been killed, but they weren't, not by a long shot, and it had been brilliant. Which brought him back to sex, and Sherlock.

He couldn't sleep in Sherlock's bed tonight. Not after shagging him. It would be too much like they were in a relationship and they weren't, not really. He needed space and a chance to think, or not think, just sleep and not think about this because this was too confusing and he wasn't ready for this.

Sherlock's brush off had stung and he was pretty sure there was a conversation waiting to happen, but that wasn't the problem. It was too soon. Too soon to be falling for someone else. Too soon to be forgiving Sherlock enough to fall into his bed. But he'd done that already hadn't he?

John didn't know what this was, what he wanted it to be. It wasn't so much that Sherlock was a man. John had worked through his sexual identity crisis after he thought Sherlock had died, and John had started having _dreams_ and _thoughts. _He'd decided long ago that Sherlock was an exception – it was Sherlock he'd been attracted to, not the fact that he was male. So being with someone with bloke bits was different, strange but not as impossible as he once thought it would be. The memory of closing his hand around Sherlock flashed through his mind. Nope, definitely not impossible.

But it was all too soon. Mary had just died. It seemed a betrayal, to be able to _be _ with someone else again so quickly. He just…couldn't get involved in another relationship yet. Not yet. Except maybe he already was. He'd been in a relationship with Sherlock all along.

And what did Sherlock want? Just sex on top of their friendship? Love? A proper relationship? What Sherlock had said in the shower that morning – he'd thought – love or at least something _more_ than friendship had been implied. Tonight he'd seemed to enjoy what they did but afterwards seemed upset about it. Probably just as confused about fucking his best friend as John was. For a moment he heard Sherlock's voice again, low and breathless as he murmured endearments against his throat. John closed his eyes. Downstairs, he could hear the violin – loud and burning. It was Sherlock in a passion. John didn't want to think about what that meant.

Was he in love with Sherlock? He loved Sherlock, he'd admitted that a long time ago, but was he _in _love with him? Did he want to do this? Part of him, the part that had enthusiastically sucked Sherlock's cock this evening and fucked his mouth this morning said, God yes. There were so many reasons not to, though. There were whole levels of impossible about being in a relationship with Sherlock, being his friend had just scraped the surface.

Maybe it would be easier if it was just sexual relief.

John opened his eyes again and looked at Mary in her wedding dress, so bright and happy and beautiful. Mary. It had been so easy with Mary. So conventional, so simple. They met, he liked her, she liked him, they had a great time together, he fell in love and so did she. Easy.

He had actually thought about her today, while he was out with Sherlock, without any conscious effort to remember. He'd been relieved that he could, that he hadn't been so caught up in being with Sherlock that she wouldn't cross his mind. It had been the completely unbelievable moment when the ice cream truck driver had turned a gun on Sherlock and Sherlock had seen John's wry look and mirrored it. He had thought she would have found it funny, the same way he and Sherlock did, the ridiculousness of it all, that two grown men could get themselves into those kinds of situations. He thought at one moment about what it would have been like to go home to her afterwards, sit with his feet in her lap and tell her about it. She would have laughed, been a bit concerned maybe, but she would have smiled at him fondly.

He wondered what she would think of things now; him and Sherlock. Would she be happy for him? Disappointed in him? One of the things that had drawn him to her was the fact that she hadn't really bothered with all the Sherlock Holmes hype. She had seen him as John, not Sherlock's grieving partner. He always thought she would have been bemused by Sherlock. Sherlock would have been awful to her of course. Awful. John would have had to lay down the law.

At least he didn't have to choose between them. Sherlock had made sure of that. Sherlock had given him that. Sherlock, the man who broke up countless dates, insulted every one of John's girlfriends, had stood aside for Mary. And true, the planets had had to align for that to happen but all the same – for once Sherlock had let him have a chance at a normal life.

And through no fault of his own, that had been fucked up, hadn't it?

He heard the violent, passionate sound of the Sherlock's violin slow and change. A new haunting melody wound up the stairs and through the floor boards. It made his insides curl and John listened awestruck before he couldn't help himself and he slipped out of bed and padded downstairs. He stopped in the doorway, struck. Sherlock was facing the window, lost in thought and music. His coat and jacket had been discarded and he wore only his shirt. John watched the way the muscles in his back, shoulders, arms flexed and moved as he drew painfully beautiful sounds from the instrument. This was Sherlock completely and a part of John couldn't help but worship him.

After a while Sherlock turned and noticed him standing there. His expression, the same contemplative one he wore when he lay on the couch and pondered a case, didn't change but he slowly approached John, still playing, until he stood directly before him.

Sherlock serenaded him. It was the only word for it. Those mercurial eyes locked on his as Sherlock poured out beautiful music before him, carrying him somewhere safe and good. John leant his head against the door jam and watched, entranced.

After too short a time Sherlock's bow drew to a stop and he stood there silently watching John.

The silence strung out between them, John not daring to speak, to break the spell. Finally he found a word. "Perfect," he breathed.

And Sherlock smiled for a moment before the expression slipped away. "Go to bed John, it's late."

John cleared his throat. "Um. You coming?"

"In a little while. I want to play some more."

John nodded. And he turned and went to Sherlock's room, to Sherlock's bed, to wait for Sherlock. The violin started again, something John had heard before, an almost lullaby.

John was almost asleep when the violin stopped. The door opened and John blinked open his eyes and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway, watching him. Light from a lamp in the lounge room slanted into the room.

Sherlock stepped into the room and stripped off his shirt and trousers and pulled on his pyjamas. He slid into bed beside John and wrapped himself around John's back, arm tight around his waist, burrowed his face into the back of John's neck. John moved his arm to cover Sherlock's.

They both lay there, the silence loud in John's ears.

"That was…what you did, before, that was good," Sherlock said, voice muffled.

John felt his heart thud. "Good," said John. "That's….good. Same. What you did, I liked that."

Sherlock added. "I mean, I've nothing to compare it to, but it felt um, exquisite."

John's felt a frisson of pleasure and pride. "Exquisite. Huh. Well. Um, thanks. I, um, haven't done that before." John paused, _nothing to compare-_? "Hang on, so you've never had -"

"Fellatio? No."

"Oh." John blinked. Never? That-

"Yes, you were my first." Sherlock splayed his hand on John's stomach.

An awful, panic inducing thought hit John. "Hang on, by first do you mean first oral sex or first _ever_?" He tried to turn over in Sherlock's grip, he craned his neck back, needing to see Sherlock.

"I couldn't see a reason to bother before. Problem?" Sherlock remained stubbornly tucked into John's back.

Oh God. Oh God. "Well…given that, um, well…don't I just feel like a complete prick?" That explained Sherlock's reaction earlier- Oh God. And in the morning- the _first time ever_ and he'd-

"What on earth for? You pleasured me exquisitely. Do try to pay attention John." He drew up, propping himself on his elbow, caught John's eye and smirked.

John wasn't fooled for a minute. "_Sherlock," _John groaned, turning over so he could look at him properly. "You can't – I mean, you decide that out of the whole world, I'm the one you want to give yourself to, and you don't bloody tell me?" Didn't bloody tell him that this was a fucking momentous occasion and maybe he should put his bloody self-indulgent moping aside for one fucking minute and maybe, I don't know, give his sexual partner a cuddle afterwards? Fuck.

"Would it have made a difference?" The smirk slipped and Sherlock's expression was searching.

"Maybe! I wouldn't have run off and had a minor panic attack in the shower for one."

"Oh." Sherlock considered this. He seemed to accept it. "Really John, it wasn't an issue for me, and it's my body. For once in my life I could see the point to sex, so I instigated it."

Pride warred with guilt. He had taken Sherlock Holmes's virginity. John couldn't help feeling smug. "Sorry, no. You're right, your body. Um. And I'm still being a bit of a prat. Do you, um, want to, um-" John reached out and gently touched Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock glared at him and twisted his face away. "John, stop it. I'm not some blushing maiden."

John pulled his hand back. "Sorry."

* * *

Sherlock rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He felt irritated and a little insulted. Why was there such a huge cachet placed on participating in what was one of the basest forms of bodily functions? As if there was something wrong with him for not having sex. The world would be a better place if a lot more people made the same decision. He didn't like the implication that he was _lacking_. He'd thought- he didn't like John thinking that he was _less_ in any way. What did it matter?

He felt John's hand on his arm. He turned his head and saw John, propped up on one elbow, looking at him. John licked his bottom lip. "Hey," he said gently. The corner of his mouth turned up. "You're my first too, you know. Haven't actually sucked another bloke's cock before, despite popular opinion. I'm just not used to being anyone's first choice. I am flattered, really."

Sherlock felt a smile twitch at his lips. "Do you need me to say exquisite again?"

John smiled. Oh God, a proper smile. "Yeah, all right. If you must." The smile kept on going.

"_Exquisite._" Sherlock let the word roll slowly off his tongue.

Still smiling, John bent forward and pressed his mouth to his. Sherlock closed his eyes and lifted his hand to John's cheek. They kissed slowly this time, gently. And then John pulled back, a smile still flickering in the corners of his mouth, and lay down, his head resting against Sherlock's on the pillow.

* * *

They lay there for a while. John closed his eyes and let himself just enjoy this for a moment; quite, warm, intimate. The next thing he knew the alarm on his phone was ringing and it was morning and he was alone.

**to be continued :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

John didn't have much chance for a few days to worry about what this was between him and Sherlock, or rather, he didn't have much chance to talk to Sherlock about it and therefore tried not to worry too much about it in the meantime. Sherlock was off on a case all Monday and only appeared briefly Tuesday evening to rummage through his wardrobe and disappear again dressed as a traffic inspector. John didn't ask to come with him and Sherlock didn't offer. John ignored the slight pang he felt, he did have work after all, Sherlock would have decided it wasn't worth asking him mid-week. That's all.

When John came home from work on Wednesday Sherlock was fast asleep on the sofa, case closed apparently, passed out with exhaustion. He put a blanket over him, checked that there was food in the fridge in case he woke up hungry in the middle of the night, then after his own supper took himself off to bed.

Sherlock was still asleep on the sofa when he got up Thursday morning. John smiled at him fondly, he looked so peaceful when he was asleep. He studied the curve of Sherlock's beautiful mouth, the slant of his cheekbones, the strong nose, the dark brows. He was beautiful, really. It had been days since he'd held Sherlock, days since, well, there was something else John was thinking about a bit more, something else he'd like to maybe do again, if he was honest. John felt the urge to just curl up beside Sherlock, maybe kiss him a bit, maybe touch his face, his hair, maybe-

John shook himself and went firmly into the kitchen to make breakfast. Things needed to be talked about, discussed or at the very least ignored and never spoken of again, waking Sherlock up with a sexual advance would probably not be helpful.

The day dragged slowly and John couldn't help thinking of the warm sleeping body lying on the sofa at the flat, and whether the owner of that warm, sleeping body would still be there when he got home.

"Ah, John," Sherlock said, when John walked in the door that evening. He was perched at the kitchen table, in his pyjamas now, a pair of safety goggles in place as he did something not quite right to the toaster with his blow torch.

"That's our toaster," said John.

"Broken," said Sherlock. "I'll buy a new one.'

"What about breakfast?"

"Have a Weetabix."

"We don't have any Weetabix."

"Don't we? Should get some next time you're out."

John rubbed his eyes. He really ought to remember that these were the sorts of discussions with Sherlock that weren't worth entering into.

"How was the case?" he asked instead.

"Dull. Well…mildly challenging I suppose, but the solution was too simple - why I didn't see it at first."

"You in tonight? I bought stuff for spag bol." He held up the plastic shopping bag.

"Fantastic, I'm starving."

"You haven't eaten anything at all since you woke up, have you?" noted John dryly.

"I tried to make toast," Sherlock offered. He indicated the toaster.

"Right. Well, give me half an hour and dinner will be ready."

Sherlock flashed him a smile then returned to torturing the toaster. "Oh," he said, suddenly. "On that bench – something for you."

John frowned and saw a folded piece of paper. He opened it. Blood test results for Sherlock Holmes. For a host of sexually transmitted diseases. All negative. Oh.

John looked up at Sherlock. "Now you don't have to worry needlessly for the next three to six months," Sherlock said helpfully.

It had crossed John's mind that perhaps it had been unwise to ingest Sherlock's semen. John knew _he _was fine, he and Mary had both had a blood test for all and every STD before trying for a baby. He believed that Sherlock had never had sex before and it wasn't even Sherlock's junkie days before they met that was the problem (they'd had _that _blazing row years ago and Sherlock had been marched down for a blood test then- negative), it was what had happened while Sherlock had been away that was the concern, had he started using again? Using in a stupid, reckless, personal risk type way? John hoped not but it was a possibility and he had decided that he would broach the subject a bit more gently than last time, but would still get himself tested in three or so months and had also picked up some condoms on the way home along with the spaghetti and sauce, just in case.

"Thanks, that was, um, thoughtful."

Sherlock made a little sound of disdain and didn't look up from his 'experiment'.

John put the paper in his pocket. Sherlock had realised he would be concerned, which meant he remembered their fight over four years ago. "Huh," said John as he got out a pot to boil the spaghetti in. "I thought you'd have deleted that by now."

"Deleted what?"

"That row we had, when I made you get tested, after Mycroft told me about your, um, colourful past."

"It involved you, John, and you are impossible to delete. Believe me, I've tried."

Oh. That was, kind of, a back hand compliment.

"That's, um, sweet actually."

Sherlock snorted. "Please, don't read anything into it. I'm sure you carry around pieces of information that are utterly useless too."

"Yeah but you don't."

"I've a theory that you are some sort of insidious memetic virus, John," said Sherlock as he applied a screwdriver to the toaster's nether regions.

"Nice," said John. "Have you tested that theory rigorously, using the scientific method?"

"Yes. I attempted to reroute my brain maps to exclude all references to you."

"Obviously it didn't work."

"No. I discovered I didn't have the necessary motivation."

John smiled into the frying pan as he browned the mince. "So this is your way of saying you didn't want to forget me."

"Don't make me repeat myself John."

"You're pretty unforgettable too, Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed and pointedly started up his blow torch.

Later, as John sat in front of the telly and Sherlock tapped away on his laptop, it was as if none of the events of a few days ago had even happened. That should be a good thing, John told himself. Status quo: flatmates, best mates, occasionally crime fighting duo. Not fuck buddies, lovers or boyfriends. Nothing awkward like that.

About nine-thirty, he flicked off the television and went off to have a shower and get ready for bed. As he came out of the bathroom, dressed in his pyjamas, he stopped. Which bed? He had been sleeping in Sherlock's bed but on the other hand, Sherlock hadn't been there. And when Sherlock had passed out asleep the other day he'd done so on the sofa. John had assumed it was because Sherlock hadn't been able to make it to his bed, but maybe it was so he wouldn't be bothering John _or maybe _so he wouldn't have to sleep with John? After all up until the other day he hadn't ever wanted to have sex, maybe he didn't want to anymore and was trying to avoid any unwanted advances. John swallowed. He should try to sleep in his own bed, there was no reason to be needing to curl up next to Sherlock, he should know by now that Sherlock wasn't going anywhere, it was just a habit really.

"Night, Sherlock," he called down the stairs. There was no response, but often there wasn't when he said goodnight to Sherlock. He went into his room and pulled back the covers. He stopped.

The photograph of Mary wasn't on his bedside table.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" he called. "Have you seen my photo of Mary?" What the fuck- He ran downstairs. "Sherlock! What have you done-" And then he saw it. Next to the skull. On the mantelpiece. His wedding photo.

He looked at Sherlock, who looked back at him, a carefully neutral expression on his face.

"You-" John blinked, he swallowed. "You moved our wedding photo."

"Mary is important to you, it seemed logical to have it in a more prominent position."

John felt his throat tighten. Sherlock did this, acknowledged Mary, for him. "Um. Yes. Thanks."

He wasn't sure what else to say. He looked at Sherlock but Sherlock had returned to his laptop.

"Right. Good. Goodnight," John said.

He turned to go.

"John?"

John stopped. "What?"

Sherlock didn't look up. "I don't have a problem, with you, sleeping in my bed. Our bed."

"Oh." John searched Sherlock's face. "Ok, good. Good to know. Um. Are you – " He tilted his head towards Sherlock's room.

Sherlock snapped the laptop shut. "Right now."

* * *

Sherlock was testing himself. He wanted to see if he could function at his usual level despite his obsession with John. He had managed reasonably well on his case; had been able to focus and he was still used to working alone so he only noted the absence of John as the normal unhealed wound that throbbed occasionally. He had successfully managed to ignore him for four days.

He'd used all his self-control to resist throwing John across the table as soon as he walked in the door tonight. Another success – able to control his desire for no reason other than self-restraint. He'd satisfied himself with mildly aggravating John instead – almost as enjoyable really. The toaster mutilation had worked exactly as anticipated and John had responded as intended. An irritated John was always fun. John had appreciated the blood test, as Sherlock had expected he would. He told himself it was to avoid being bothered with boring questions about his past when John _should _know he was not stupid and would as soon as share a needle as spend twenty-minutes making small talk. It was not about being _thoughtful…_well…maybe, a bit. And his hypothesis about Mary's photograph had proved correct although he had had to wait all evening before _finally_ John noticed. That – he told himself – was to aid John in his grieving process and moving forward, integrating his memory of Mary into their life here at Baker Street. Neither of these actions had been intended to seduce John. Not at all.

And of _course_ John was being ridiculously chivalrous and actually considering sleeping in his own bed, when both of them knew he couldn't sleep alone anymore. So Sherlock had alleviated his concerns on that front too.

He had proven conclusively that wanting John inside his veins had not rendered him incapable of rational thought or deed. Test concluded, result successful.

And now. Now he was going to show John just how misguided his chivalry was.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock as he crossed the room, John Watson fixed in his sights, that he was safe. John would not mock or ridicule him when he propositioned him. At the very, very worst, he would be kind and fond as he gently, gently declined Sherlock's offer, and as Sherlock had seen the condoms and lubricant in the Tesco's bag, that was unlikely to happen. There was no risk here, none except losing his heart even more than he had already.

* * *

John felt pinned as Sherlock stalked towards him, his eyes fixed on John's, intense, predatory. Oh. He gulped as Sherlock stopped bare centimetres in front of him. Sherlock's eyes searched his and he cupped John's face in both hands before sealing their lips together.

Sherlock pulled back far enough to study John's face intently. A look of pure satisfaction crossed his features.

"Bed, John, I have plans for you."

"Plans. Ok," said John, nodding once. Ok. He licked his lips. "Do they involve nudity by any chance?"

"Oh yes." Sherlock's smile was shark-like.

John's heart thudded. "Right. Good." And he dragged Sherlock back into a kiss again. They stumbled, tripped back into the bedroom, kissing, touching, stripping on the way until the backs of John's legs hit the edge of the bed and he toppled backwards, Sherlock half on him. Sherlock righted himself and stood, and John sat up on his elbows and watched as the other man, ridiculously beautiful demi-god that he was, finished ridding himself of his clothing. He stood there naked, fuck, erect, eyes dark, and with a look on his face that seemed to be a mix of triumph and pure longing. John's brain stopped working at that point.

"You're not naked enough," Sherlock complained.

John quickly pulled off his shirt and lifted himself up to shed his pyjamas and pants. He shifted up to lie back against the pillows. Sherlock walked around to his side of the bed and slid in beside him, slowly, deliberately.

"Better," Sherlock said.

John turned towards him, drew him close, touching; lips, chest, stomach, groin, hip and thigh. Close, closer until there was nothing between them. The sensation of Sherlock's skin pressed against him overwhelmed him for a moment.

John felt his breath escape and then Sherlock inhaled.

* * *

Sherlock could feel every inch of John, every one of John's pores and skin cells pressed against his own, tantalising, personal, astonishingly intimate. He'd never touched John like this before, so completely. It was incredibly arousing. He shifted his hips and felt the delicious sensation of his erection sliding against John's. John moaned against his mouth and the sound made desire coil low in his belly. He rocked his hips, feeling John moving against him as they kissed and rubbed and moved against each other.

"John, please," Sherlock moaned. The friction was frustrating in its deliciousness. He pushed John onto his back, rising up, bracing himself over John and thrusting against him and then the world stopped for a moment because John's hand closed around them both.

"Fuck, yes," Sherlock hissed.

John groaned and started stroking before pausing. "Need lube – bought some-"

"Pillow," bit out Sherlock.

John looked delightfully confused and then cottoned on, reaching under Sherlock's pillow where he'd hidden the lubrication he'd purloined from John's shopping bag.

"Cocky bastard aren't you?" John said, twisting off the cap and picking off the silver seal.

"You're the one who bought it in the first place," Sherlock panted.

John responded with a slick hand gliding down his shaft and there wasn't much he could say to that with any coherency.

* * *

Afterwards, when John had cleaned off the sticky mess between them, they lay sated, half on each other, warm, relaxed. This was the first time they'd lain next to each other after sex. The third time Sherlock Holmes had ever had sex. John kept these facts in mind as he pressed his lips gently to Sherlock's shoulder, jaw, drew his fingers lazily across his stomach, over his hip, over his chest. He needed to show him that he was special, that this was special, that John knew this was special and that he appreciated it. He found Sherlock's hand and slid his into it, squeezed.

"You are beautiful," he said and it was true, not just pillow talk. He'd seen Sherlock's body before but this was the first time he'd been able to touch and explore it properly. It reminded him of a Greek statue, it was so pale and all muscle and sinew. And that face – since when had he admired a man's face so much? All the pieces individually so beautiful? Eyes, mouth, cheeks, nose.

John skin still hummed and he felt as if he was sinking into Sherlock, just a bit. Was that possible? For their atoms to meld due to post-orgasmic bliss? He'd often wondered. He almost asked Sherlock but he suspected Sherlock would know and the answer would be 'don't be stupid' and he was too comfortable right now for a 'don't be stupid'. Just enjoy this, he told himself, don't think too hard, just enjoy it.

But it was too late, his brain had started turning.

"So um, this is something we're doing now?" he asked.

"It appears so. Obviously you don't mind." Sherlock's voice rumbled, velvety smooth and deep beside his ear. John hummed lightly. Shut up, he told himself. Just shut up. Let it be. Let _this_ be. Just for a moment – don't analyse it. Don't spoil it. But he couldn't. He couldn't lie to Sherlock.

"I…no…um, obviously I enjoy it. I just…I'm not sure what it means. To me. Um." He took a deep breath.

Sherlock turned his face into John's shoulder, his breath warm on John's neck. He felt him kiss his collarbone. Finally Sherlock spoke.

"What's to understand? Our friendship now includes sex. Do you mind?"

John heard the lie but was happy to accept it. He carded his fingers through Sherlock's tousled hair, still short but long enough for curls and tangles. "No, I don't. Do you?"

"No. It's fine. For now," Sherlock rumbled against his neck.

"Hm, good."

John chuckled lightly. "How is it possible that someone as hot as you hasn't done this before? I mean you do seem to like it? You must have had heaps of offers."

Sherlock grunted and ran his hand down John's arm briefly. "The people who offered were all imbeciles, or unappealing." He mouthed at the soft skin above John's clavicle. "I decided when I was a teenager that it was too undignified and messy, it left one emotionally vulnerable, lacking in control and generally not worth the effort for effects that could be replicated through chemical means. I've had little reason to revise my opinion since then."

John stroked his hair some more. "But you have, obviously."

"Don't fish, John."

"I'm not, I'm genuinely wondering why you're doing this if you dislike it so much."

Sherlock ran his hand over John's bare chest, and splayed it over his sternum. "It's still undignified and messy, the emotional impact has been as expected and I have had to carefully monitor my self-control. So no, my opinion hasn't changed. There are however, benefits I hadn't found relevant before, that I have – never induced chemically."

"Such as?"

Sherlock exhaled. "Tasting you. Touching you. Hearing you moan my name as you ejaculate into my mouth. Feeling you touch me, feeling your lips on me, smelling you on my skin the next morning. Being nearer to you than I've ever been before."

John swallowed. It sounded about exactly why he had decided to have sex with a bloke after forty-something years of being resolutely straight. It was also incredibly flattering.

"God Sherlock," John breathed.

Sherlock chuckled. "Did that answer your question?"

"Git, who said you weren't romantic?"

"Hm," said Sherlock but made no other comment.

They lay there and John's eyes drifted shut. They shot open again when something occurred to him.

"So you and Irene Adler never-"

Sherlock snorted. "_No_."

"Oh. Good."

Sherlock chuckled, a lovely vibration against his chest. "I knew you were jealous."

"Of who, you or her?" John teased.

"Her, of course."

"Oh. Ok."

"John!"

It was John's turn to laugh. "Of course, her."

"I was infatuated with her," Sherlock admitted.

"I gathered that. She was clever, beautiful. You weren't tempted?"

"Ah…no. She liked to humiliate people for a living, hardly something I'd enjoy, besides it was all a game to her, if I had, she would have won. It's not…my area of expertise."

"Oh I don't know about that," John said. "Pretty good for a beginner." And then he yelped, because Sherlock bit him and chuckled. John growled in mock annoyance and Sherlock pecked a kiss on the injured spot.

"She's not dead you know. I suppose it doesn't matter if I tell you. I caught up with her, while I was away."

John froze. Oh and didn't that just make sense. "You helped her fake her death too. Mycroft said only you could have fooled him. Huh, practicing were you?" He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"John…"

John didn't respond. He couldn't. And suddenly this was all meaningless, because he couldn't trust Sherlock and he couldn't get past Sherlock's betrayal of him, their friendship and everything he thought they had together.

"John."

Sherlock sat up, looking down at him directly, so John couldn't avoid his eyes. His pale face was drawn tight.

"John, please," Sherlock said.

"What do you want me to say, Sherlock?"

"That you forgive me."

There was a bitter taste in John's mouth. "I'm working on it. It's not something I can just magic up. You made me watch you die. You thought I was a liability. You didn't want our friendship. You didn't want me." And there, he'd said it.

"To protect you!" Sherlock looked frustrated and annoyed, but fuck that's how John felt, only hurt as well.

"I know! Fuck, Sherlock, I know! Bloody hell, you think I don't know what a hero you are, sacrificing yourself for us? I've got no right to feel this way, but I do."

Sherlock stared down at him. "You're right. I didn't want our friendship. It made me vulnerable and weak, because it would have killed me John, if you had died."

He pulled away from John and got off the bed, pacing.

"And you think I wouldn't feel the same?" John demanded. He sat up.

The look Sherlock gave him cut him to the quick. "I assessed the risk and I was proved correct. Obviously you don't."

"Oh, excuse me! You're really going there? Because I didn't off myself when you died, you think I don't care as much as a git who was happy to fuck off and never see me again?"

Sherlock growled. "The last thing I wanted was for you to die! I needed you to be alive and safe. If you had even tried- you would have been stopped."

"Of course, 'cause I don't get a fucking say in any of this do I?"

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly said 'idiot'. "I wanted to be alone and strong, not- _weak. _ Caring is not an advantage. Irene showed me that, Victor - I learnt that a long time ago. I had to fake my death, it was better to stay dead."

"Who's Victor?"

Sherlock waved his hand in irritation. "It doesn't matter." He sat down on the end of the bed, slumped, deflated. "And for the record, I wasn't happy, I was not happy, John, without you and now I am here."

John sighed. "For the record, too, if it had been me on the roof, and you who had the sniper rifle on you, I would have jumped too. But –" he paused, considering his words. "I would have told you, Sherlock. I wouldn't have shut you out."

"I- I am used to working alone, John." He turned to look at John, jaw tight, lips a thin line. "Relying on others doesn't come naturally to me. I'll try. Don't – don't ask any more than that. I'll disappoint you."

John nodded. He closed the space between them and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "All right."

Sherlock raised his eyes to John's. "I want youto trust me again." And the look on his face made John's heart ache.

"Give me time," John said. "Please. I'm working through it. It just takes time."

Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath, and turned into John, burying his face in John's shoulder again. John put his arms around him and bent his lips to his dark head.

"Come on, can we sleep now? God knows what time it is, I am supposed to be at work in the morning."

Sherlock shifted up and crawled onto the bed with him and curled himself around John. John closed his eyes and stroked Sherlock's back. He could do that, at least. Things were not right between them yet, it felt jagged as if they didn't fit together properly anymore. He wanted everything to be right again. They were both trying, that was a start.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN:** Thank you for all the reviews and alerts! Much appreciated.

Well, since I'm a good, rules oriented citizen, **this is a censored, M rated version of part 7**. If you are an adult and would like to read the unabridged, NC17 version you can see it on my Livejournal page: mildred-bobbin dot livejournal dot com. Part 8 will also be censored for ffnet. Contains depictions of sexual intercourse between two consenting adults *cough*man sex*cough*. Or read both and tell me which you liked best :D :D Please let me know if you think it needs more cutting.

**Part 7**

John must have drifted off because when he opened his eyes it was morning. He shifted comfortably, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's body curled around his, Sherlock's warm breath against his neck, and then felt a sense of guilty relief that this had been his first reaction and hadn't thought it had been Mary instead. He realised it was the first time he'd woken next to Sherlock since all this shagging had started and also that he was ok with it, that having Sherlock's naked body wrapped around his own, Sherlock's leg snaking between his, was a good thing. Sunlight was pouring into the room. He was late for work but he slipped his hand over Sherlock's and relaxed back into his embrace for another five minutes pushing aside all the maybes and questions. He felt Sherlock shift and kiss his shoulder before relaxing again.

"Morning," Sherlock's deep voice was rough with sleep.

"Hey," John said, turning slightly. "Morning."

Sherlock shifted against him, semi-aroused. John realised he was also ok with that, having a semi-erect penis pressed into his arse cheek first thing in the morning. As long as it was Sherlock's he amended, he wasn't sure he was particularly interested in anyone else's penises in the morning or any other time for that matter. He thought about that a bit. He enjoyed sex with Sherlock, did that mean he'd like sex with some other bloke? He considered his other male friends – Bill from the army, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Wallace Fisher from the practice – John pulled a face at the thought of any of them naked, let alone sucking his cock. Well that was, kind of a relief, he was a bit old to have been in denial about his sexuality for this long. He didn't think he'd been that wilfully ignorant about his sexual orientation. Sherlock was different, Sherlock was Sherlock and John loved him and wanted him and who bloody cared what chromosomes he had?

John turned over, nose brushing against Sherlock's. He took a tentative kiss. With a small sigh of pleasure, Sherlock responded languidly and they lay there, kissing lightly, still half asleep.

Work. John groaned and pushed lightly at Sherlock. "Got to get up," he murmured.

Sherlock's grip tightened and he mouthed at John's jaw, his ear lobe, his throat.

"Not helping Sherlock," groaned John.

"Not trying to help," Sherlock murmured, rubbing against him lazily.

John didn't want to move. "Have to go to work," he said, kissing Sherlock.

"Mm," said Sherlock.

John reluctantly detached himself from Sherlock's arms. "See you tonight?" he said.

Sherlock made a sound that was suspiciously like a whine. "Most likely, I hate you a little bit right now."

"Stop," said John. God he was tempted. Sherlock rolled onto his back, stretching lazily, displaying his body to full advantage. He looked like something out of a classical painting, his long sculpted body naked and stretched out, dark hair against pale skin, beautiful face and large elegant hand resting on his hardening cock. John's mouth went dry.

"Ok. I've got to go, seriously." He lent over and kissed those perfect lips.

Sherlock smirked and let his hand glide down John's side, brushing tantalisingly close to his rapidly hardening erection. "You're not making a convincing argument."

John looked down. "No. Not very. I-"

And then his phone started ringing. "Shit, seriously, that will be Cheryl." Cheryl Gardner, his practice manager wondering where he was.

Sherlock actually pouted. "This is why I don't like sex. I'm going to have to masturbate before I can think clearly today."

Oh God. The thought of Sherlock wanking, alone, when he was stuck at the office dealing with old ladies with lumbago was pretty bloody intolerable. He'd probably have to rub one out in the shower anyway so he could leave the flat without a raging hard on. Might as well do that together.

John fell back onto the pillow and reached for Sherlock. "God, just remember this when I'm the one feeling randy and you get called out to a case, all right?"

* * *

After John had deserted him for work, Sherlock stayed in bed to lie in John's warm spot for a little while and enjoy the smell of sex and John and sex with John. Then he had a thought and threw a sheet around himself before racing upstairs to John's room where he spent a good hour investigating it, pretending to deduce John from just his neat, sparse, room. He opened John's underwear drawer, pulled on a pair of navy briefs and then found a jewellery box tucked in the corner. He opened it. Wedding ring, as expected, John had stopped wearing it before Sherlock came back. Engraved, J.H. W. & M.A.M. 23.03.14. Mary Watson, nee Morstan.

His eyes fell to the now empty bedside table where the photograph had been. Sherlock strode downstairs and flung himself onto the sofa to glare at the offending item now gracing his mantelpiece. John looked handsome, wearing a suit that fit him and a happy smile that suited him. He was looking, not at the camera, but at Mary, and she the same. That smile was for Mary. Sherlock swallowed down the jealous bile that rose to his throat. Ridiculous, he didn't have to be jealous of a dead woman. He just needed to be enough for John now.

* * *

John spent the day at work thinking a bit too much about Sherlock, about Sherlock and him, and about their relationship. One thing was clear, he wanted to be with Sherlock. The idea of leaving Baker Street was unthinkable. He supposed he could go back to being just friends but he really didn't want to, if he was honest with himself, not now, not now he knew what it could be. Moving forward seemed to be the most sensible option, but that would mean reconciling his feelings for Mary with how he felt about Sherlock, forgiving Sherlock, trusting Sherlock again. And what then? This was serious. It wasn't a date with some girl who he could break up with in three months, if he entered into something with Sherlock it would be, well, maybe forever, and what did that mean? It wouldn't be the same as marrying Mary. Marriage, kids, growing old together, watching BBC dramas on the settee when they were in their eighties? Would any of that be possible with Sherlock? Marriage, yeah, possible. Having kids – it wouldn't be easy – it would have to be adoption or surrogacy - would he even want to do that with Sherlock? Bloody hell, no breasts or lovely womanly curves or vaginas ever again. Could he give that up forever? Because ending this with Sherlock later on, if it didn't work out, and then not being able to be just friends anymore, that didn't seem possible either.

And what did Sherlock want? They had to both want the same thing – it wouldn't work otherwise.

Maybe Sherlock was right, it was just another dimension to their friendship, nothing more. He shouldn't over think it.

He was getting ready to leave that afternoon when Cheryl knocked on his office door.

"We're all going for a drink if you'd like to join us?" She had come with the practice when he bought it and was so efficient and competent that John hadn't dreamed of asking her to move on. She was nearly fifty, grownup kids, husband with an office job too and she treated the doctors like recalcitrant children. She did fancy a drink at the weekend though.

John paused, a refusal already on his lips before he thought about why. Normally he'd refuse because the idea of being jolly with work colleagues was a bit beyond him, but now, now he just couldn't wait to get back to Sherlock. But what if Sherlock was out, then he'd feel like a right pillock.

"Um, just let me check – my flatmate might have cooked already." It was a better than saying he was hoping to get a blow job from the wickedest mouth this side of Hampstead Heath.

He texted Sherlock. _You home?_

A reply came within a minute. _Still. Bored. Haven't you left yet?_ -SH

The SH on the end always amused him, as if it could've been from anyone else. Although the way Sherlock changed mobiles it was sometimes handy. _On my way._

"Sorry, he's ordered take away," John told Cheryl.

"I haven't wanted to say anything, you're probably sick of people asking, but it's such wonderful news he's alive. You must have been so relieved."

"Relieved isn't quite the word for it." John smiled tightly. Actually aside from a few reporters who'd ambushed him outside of Baker Street when he'd first moved home, no one had really mentioned Sherlock's return – but then he didn't really talk to anyone outside of work anymore. Lestrade, Harry, Mike Stamford, Mrs Hudson, the only people who he'd had any meaningful contact since Sherlock's return, and they'd all been respectfully quiet on the topic of his feelings.

"You seem happier," Cheryl said. "Sorry, not my business. But you do. We all felt so worried about you after poor Mary, all on your own – but it's good you've moved back in with Sherlock Holmes, it's important to have someone to bring you out of yourself."

"Yes," said John politely. "He's um, it's been good to have him back." Good. And it was. And there were all kinds of what ifs about Mary and Sherlock that he couldn't think about because they'd tie him up in knots. He could even sometimes forget about the bitter lump of resentment and hurt that he just couldn't shake.

When John came home he found Sherlock dressed in one of his usual black suits, lying on the sofa.

Sherlock sat up. "Get changed John, we're going to dinner."

"Dinner? Angelo's?" The last time they were at Angelo's it was awkward, the poor man had made such a scene about Sherlock being alive that it was bloody embarrassing for everyone.

"No. Somewhere else."

"Case then?" If it was to eat, it would be Angelo's which was free, if not, then Sherlock needed to stalk someone.

"No. Why? Oh. Clever, John, you're learning. But no, tonight you are wrong. We are eating out."

"Oh?"

"I'm taking you to dinner."

John just looked at Sherlock. "Any reason? Apart from eating?"

"That's what people do, isn't it? When they're wooing someone?"

Wooing? John blinked and then tried not to smirk as he processed this thought. "Ah. Oh. That's, well, nice, Sherlock. Yes. I would like to go to dinner with you."

"Marvellous. Hurry up, our reservation is at seven. And wear a decent suit."

John looked down at his perfectly acceptable work suit, then sighed. He put the milk in the fridge and left the rest of the groceries on the table. Well, maybe he wasn't the only one thinking about their relationship today. He went upstairs and had a quick shower and fished his nice suit out of the back of the wardrobe and found his nice shirt and a tie. He looked at himself in the mirror, presentable. He was going out to dinner with Sherlock. A date. An actual date with a man, a man he was fucking, who he loved, who he might be _in _love with, who he had mourned but was now alive and well and in rude good health in his living room. Ok.

Sherlock smiled brightly when John came downstairs. "Good. Well, if you're ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

"Have you had a haircut recently?" Sherlock asked in the cab.

"No, why?" John frowned, wondering what was wrong with his hair.

"Oh, your hair looks different, better, that's all."

Huh. "Thanks."

A moment later: "Have I seen that shirt before? It suits you."

John glanced down at his good shirt, then at Sherlock's tight well-tailored one. "Thanks – your um, shirt's nice too."

"Of course, it's Spencer Hart."

When they stepped out of the cab, John gave Sherlock an odd look when he held the door for him.

Sherlock leant in as he pushed the door closed behind John. "You smell…delicious," he said, low and deep next to his ear. John felt a tingle run down his spine. He glanced up at Sherlock and tried not to blush when they made eye contact. Sherlock's eyes bore into his. He looked away quickly.

"Um, so, where are we going?" he asked. They were near Notting Hill.

"The Ledbury," said Sherlock.

"Really? How did you get a reservation to that?" It had stars, Michelin ones.

"I made a call."

"Mycroft," said John flatly.

"Actually I know the Maître d'."

"Oh right. Course you do."

"Shall we?"

John grinned. "Why not?"

Sherlock was still being abnormally charming and solicitous as they sat down and finally, when he politely asked John's opinion about which wine to order, John raised his eyebrows and said, "Stop."

"Stop?"

"The charming date act. You don't have to pretend to be someone else Sherlock. I know exactly what you're like and I will shag you anyway."

He had the satisfaction of seeing first confusion and then a delicate blush on Sherlock's face. "I'm trying to make a good impression, isn't that what people do, on dates?"

"Um yes, usually, if you've never faced a psychopathic consulting criminal or tracked a serial killer together that is."

"I want you to know that you're important to me John."

John grinned. "You could just say that. And I do know. Idiot."

"That's not appropriate date behaviour John." Sherlock pouted, which John was beginning to suspect was a calculated gesture, since it made him melt, just a little.

"Sorry. Have I mentioned you look incredibly, um, well, gorgeous tonight? Will that do?"

"John," Sherlock said reproachfully.

John looked down at his plate, then glanced up again. "You do though."

And Sherlock looked away, a pleased look and a light blush colouring his cheeks. He chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully and looked around. "Fine then. You want the real me? See that couple over there?"

John glanced quickly. "The woman in blue?"

"Cerulean," Sherlock corrected. And he proceeded to dissect the other clientele, the wait staff and the chef, while John watched, slight embarrassment outweighed by admiration and amusement.

"All right, now you're just showing off," he said after one particularly complicated deduction.

Sherlock looked smug. "But you were impressed."

"Always," said John around a forkful of deer.

"You are happier," Sherlock said. It wasn't a question but it echoed what Cheryl had said earlier that day, and John had to admit it was true.

"I am a bit, yes. I…I'm sorting through things." He glanced up at Sherlock and found him watching him. "You, um, you are probably helping with that."

Sherlock's mouth creased into a smile. "Good."

And for a moment John was caught by Sherlock's expression and it made him think of futures and thoughts he'd recently reserved for green-eyed red heads from Edinburgh. He looked away and then Sherlock found someone else to deduce.

"Do you want to wait for dessert?" Sherlock asked John after he'd finished the main. "I had a movie planned next but we can always forgo that if you prefer." He fiddled with his napkin.

John was touched and amused in equal parts by the fact that Sherlock was obviously trying so hard. "Is it a movie you want to see, or one you thought I'd like to see when you were planning the perfect date?"

"It was mindless and involved a substandard plot and large explosions. I was thinking of you."

John smiled and shook his head. "So, if this was a normal date and we were normal people, I'd expect that at this point, I'd say let's forget the movie, go back to mine and have a coffee there instead."

Sherlock gave him a direct look. "And since we're not?"

John lifted his chin. "Then I'd say let's go home and go to bed and see what happens."

* * *

Sherlock decided that John should wear nice suits more often. Firstly they showed off his body far better than jumpers and jeans, secondly, they were exceptionally fun to remove, piece by piece. Now he had John naked on the bed and he was taking his time enjoying every inch of him. Sherlock still didn't quite understand why he found John's body so interesting, it was essentially the same as any human body, but it was eternally fascinating, the physiology that consisted of John, and how John reacted to stimuli to every part of that body. Sherlock tasted and touched and breathed in every inch from lips to navel and then came to the silky hardness jutting up proudly at John's groin. He breathed in the scent of sex and arousal and John.

John groaned and his fingers tensed in Sherlock's hair.

He laved John's cock with his tongue and then moved lower, tasting, exploring. John was making the most gratifying sounds of pleasure. He pushed John's legs back, opening him to his attentions.

"Sherlock…" John's voice quavered.

Sherlock paused. "Problem?"

"I'm not sure I'm, um, ready for-"

Sherlock ran his tongue over sensitive skin. "Tell me when you want me to stop."

"Oh god…"

* * *

John twisted his head back and bit his right hand while he gripped the bed head with his left. Sherlock was doing wicked, wicked things to a part of his body he'd always considered the epitome of personal.

"John, do you trust me?"

And God, he did, he did trust him. He would follow this man anywhere, he knew that now, despite everything, because of everything. "Yes," he panted. "God, yes."

* * *

John was perfect, stretched beneath him, begging, wanting, open and exposed. His John. All his. Sherlock wanted him and it was unbearable.

"John?" he asked, and swallowed to clear his throat. "Tell me if you want me to stop." He clenched his jaw, held his control. Please don't-

John just groaned. "God, please, go on, do it. Just do it."

* * *

Sherlock filled John, covered him, held him, his whole being centred on the feeling, the knowledge of having Sherlock inside him, moving within him, taking him, owning him, firing sparks of glowing, burning pleasure through his nerve endings, spiralling him into nothing but Sherlock and Sherlock's cock and the rhythm of in, out, thrust, breath, sigh.

"Sher – Sherlock, fuck, Sher-" He heard meaningless sounds spilling from his mouth. He reached between them, and then he was riding out his orgasm while Sherlock grunted and leaned back and held John's legs and thrust into him.

"John- mine, you're mine, John. Going to- coming John, coming in you, my John, you're mine, love you John, love you John- " and then Sherlock was shuddering and tensing against John and coming deep inside him.

* * *

Sherlock collapsed on top of John, shattered. He had no words, his neurons weren't connecting properly, he felt like a shapeless, boneless mass, unmade, undone. John did this and that was right and perfect.

And John was stroking his hair and kissing him, kissing his forehead, taking his hand, kissing his fingers, his palm, whispering sweet, kind, fond words. But none of them were _those_ words, the words Sherlock had just confessed and he felt his heart break just a bit. John cared and was his and that would have to do for now.

**tbc**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: **Once again, this part is the M rated version. For adult readers, the unabridged NC17 version can be found on my livejournal at mildred-bobbin at livejournal dot com. Contains reasonably explicit sexy times. As usual, please let me know if this version is still too spicy for ffnet. Thanks for reading, favouriting and reviewing. Thanks also to those who took the trouble to go visit my LJ for the last chapter!

**ANN:** ahem, no offence intended to anyone 19 and under reading this part - Sherlock and John are referring to themselves and no generalisations are intended.

**Part 8**

Three words, simple, one syllable each, but for some reason they stuck in John's throat. They were too heavy and big and important and he couldn't get them out, not now, not without the cover of sex when it was ok to let all sorts of endearments spill out, like Sherlock had. People said all sorts of things during sex, you couldn't really take it as read that those were the things they'd say _normally_, that they actually meant, even if he thought that maybe, yes Sherlock did. They didn't necessarily need a reply. All the same, John whispered to Sherlock that he was beautiful and gorgeous and lovely. It was the best he could do.

They lay there for a while, holding each other and then Sherlock shifted off and collapsed on the pillow next to John, and John stumbled off to the shower for a quick wash. He fell back onto the pillow and took Sherlock's hand and kissed it again.

"That was amazing...how, I mean, have you been researching or something?"

"Incredible, the information available online," murmured Sherlock sleepily. "Videos even."

"You watched gay porn while I was at work." John suddenly wished he'd followed his urge at work that morning to have a quick look on the internet about how to have anal sex. He'd told himself he was being a bit pre-emptive and had gone back to worrying about relationships instead.

Sherlock turned towards him, cracking his eyes open. "Informational guide, John," he said, voice rough with sleep and sex. He coughed and then his lips slid into a lazy smile. "I might have practiced on myself as well, just to be sure I grasped the concept fully, you understand."

John heard himself make a sound that was half adolescent snigger, half gulp. The idea of Sherlock – those fingers – on, _in_ himself – kneeling on the bed maybe – _fingers –_ fuck - if he hadn't already had his brains shagged out he'd be half hard again just thinking about it. "Oh, of course." He tried to clear his throat.

Sherlock trailed lazy fingers along John's thigh as he continued, his tone lazy and matter of fact. "The additional sexual release did wonders for my staying power tonight, if nothing else. Worth the effort, don't you think?"

John's head spun and his mouth was completely dry. "Um, yes," he said and turned onto his side facing Sherlock. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's dark head, nuzzling the soft curls, letting his hand stray to run lightly over Sherlock's arm. Ridiculous, amazing man. "Might even let you do it again sometime," he admitted, muffled there.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around him in reply and kissed his shoulder.

John closed his eyes for just a moment and when he opened them again it was morning and Sherlock was still wrapped around him. John felt warmth bloom inside his chest. He had Sherlock and Sherlock had him and he was loved, and he loved Sherlock and this would be ok, it would be fine.

He studied the perfect sleeping face beside him. Sherlock stirred, a wonderful soft, sleepy look tempering his normally sharp features. He opened his eyes and a smile spread across his face when he saw John.

"Morning," John said.

"Mm, yes," said Sherlock stretching. He reminded John of a cat. He rolled back towards John, studying him, eyes suddenly awake, intent. "Are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh," John stretched a bit, winced slightly. "There's a bit of an ache, nothing …wrong, muscles probably. You?"

"Utterly boneless. I think you broke me."

John smiled. "Well, it's Saturday, I think we're morally obliged to lie in and talk nonsense for at least an hour."

"Is that what people do? The morning after amazing sex?"

Amazing sex. John couldn't keep his smile from turning a bit goofy, it was rather. "If they're very lucky."

"Mmm," murmured Sherlock and ran his hand over John's chest and stomach. "You feel deliciously warm."

"So do you."

It felt good, being naked and warm with Sherlock. Surprisingly comfortable. John felt a stirring of lazy arousal. Maybe later?

Sherlock's hand stilled. "John," he said suddenly. "Whatever happens, with _this_, promise me we'll remain friends."

John looked up at him in surprise and was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes. "Yes, of course. I'd – I want that too. I just – I haven't got a great track record of staying friends with my exes. I hope we could, yes."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, jaw tight, uncertainty in his expression. Then he rolled onto his back. He stared at the ceiling. John propped himself up on his forearm.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's brow creased into a frown. "I had a friend at Uni. Victor," he said quietly.

* * *

Sherlock had been thinking about Victor ever since he'd blurted out his name to John. Victor, with his blonde curls and easy smile, his gregarious, out-going nature. The memory still left a bitter sting, and was another that couldn't be deleted, just sectioned off, partitioned. Annoyingly it had recently occurred to Sherlock that perhaps part of his reason for leaving John had been a subconscious attempt to avoid a repeat of the Victor incident – leave before he could be left, before he could be hurt again. He had thought he'd crushed down and ignored the feelings his break up with Victor had engendered but maybe – irritatingly – he was beginning to suspect he had only cordoned them off.

They had only been nineteen, he hadn't even wanted to be in love, had watched his peers embarrass themselves, become foolish, ridiculous, in a constant quest for love or sex or both. With the benefit of nearly twenty-year's hindsight he knew part of that disdain was protection against the real possibility that he wouldn't have been able to find a partner, the same way he had told himself he didn't need or want friends as a defence mechanism from an early age, until it became true. High school had been torturous and even three years into University, it had left its mark. Sherlock had witnessed shame and humiliation in the name of love and sex, had been shamed and humiliated for false assumptions about love and sex that his tormentors had decided would be amusing weapons. It had been better at University but staying in a college had meant the bastardising and fraternal nature of the peer group continued to some degree. Sherlock built up defences and hated everyone as much as they hated him. He hadn't believed or trusted Victor at first, self-confidence still only a glass-walled fortress without years of experience and success to solidify it into the iron clad tower it was today. But Victor-

Sherlock had long since accepted that his intolerance for stupidity and his preference for his own company meant that in general there weren't many people he could call friends. There were three types of people in Sherlock's life: useful, interesting and the rest. He made use of the useful people, studied the interesting ones and was intolerant of the rest. He knew other people regarded him similarly, found him useful, found him intolerable and remarkably, a few found him genuinely interesting. Those few occasions when he found someone in the interesting category and they regarded him as interesting as well was a rare and important occurrence.

John was interesting. He was good, honest, steadfast, loyal, adventurous, generous and brave and all those things that deep down Sherlock's romantic heart admired. He had a smile that made Sherlock break when he was the cause. And for some miraculous reason, John found him interesting. He had not mocked him, had only found his abilities amazing, had always treated him like a person, not an oddity. A soldier and a doctor, his knight in shining armour, who on their very first case had killed for him, who not so long after had been willing to die for him. John was important. Sherlock would die for him too. Victor had been important. Victor had broken his heart.

* * *

John stilled as Sherlock began to speak. He had wondered about Victor, ever since Sherlock's throw away comment two nights ago. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"He was the only friend I made the whole time I was there. I was even less sociable than I am now, had even less tolerance for idiots. He was practically the opposite of me; hearty, good natured, full of spirits and energy. When I met you – you reminded me of him a little. It was what drew me to you, initially. We only met because his damn dog bit me. And he felt guilty of course, and insisted on visiting me. We had nothing in common; we took a couple of subjects together that was all. I kept waiting for him to take offence, to get angry at me, to piss off, but he never did. He'd just laugh. Looking back, I think he was as lonely as me, wanted a friend as much as I did." Sherlock sucked his bottom lip in between his teeth and took a deep breath.

John watched his face, not daring to interrupt, Victor had been him all over, thrown in with Sherlock and able to appreciate how bloody incredible he actually was. Sherlock so rarely revealed his past and now he was talking about something that John sensed was entirely central to who he was, that was pretty bloody important to know about in regard to any future relationship too. "I was in love with him. I – I thought, I hoped, he loved me, but it didn't matter if he didn't, because we were friends."

* * *

Sherlock closed his eyes. He could see the green lawn so clearly, the branches of the oak tree stretching above them, summer sun filtering through the leaves, the scent of cut grass and sweat. Insects whirred nearby. Cooler here, in the shade. Victor lying beside him on the grass, laughing. Victor looking at him, smiling and then leaning forward-

* * *

"What happened?"

"He invited me to stay at his place in the country during the summer. It was – we kissed. Nothing else – Victor tried - I wouldn't let him, but maybe I would have, if things had continued, I was utterly smitten. But his father – his father had a secret. I couldn't resist - you can probably imagine. I was nineteen, I was awful. Anyway, things were tense after I deduced Old Mr Trevor. I felt I had to leave." John could imagine, Sherlock ignore a mystery, resist a chance to show how clever he was? Yes, that probably would get up the nose of his boyfriend's father. At nineteen John had been cocky and thought himself invincible, he could only imagine what Sherlock had been like.

"A few weeks later, Victor called me, begged me to come back and help. His father's past had caught up with him and he'd had a fatal heart attack before I arrived. Victor was heartbroken, it wasn't actually my fault, but I was associated, I _knew_, Victor couldn't forgive me."

* * *

They were at the gates. It was late and the other mourners had all gone. Victor turned his head away. Sherlock could feel Victor slipping through his fingers. He hadn't made eye contact since – since they'd read the note. Everything Sherlock had said since then had been wrong.

"We could go up to your room," Sherlock suggested. Maybe _that_ would fix things. Maybe Victor would like him again-

"You should leave in the morning, I think it would be best," Victor replied. His tone was cold.

"I want to stay, I- I want to be with you." Sherlock hated how he must sound, weak, pathetic, it was embarrassing, he couldn't stop himself.

"Sherlock, this isn't going to work." Victor still wasn't looking at him. He started to walk away.

Sherlock gripped Victor's shirt, Victor was pulling away, prying his fingers away. "What did I do?" Sherlock was asking. "Please, Victor, just tell me what I did."

"Nothing, nothing. Don't Sherlock- "

"Is it sex? I can do that, I want to do that-"

"Sherlock-" Finally Victor looked at him, annoyance, exasperation overlaying the misery. Sherlock flinched inside at the memory. Sherlock hated the hardness, the dislike in Victor's expression. He dropped his hand.

Sherlock opened his eyes. John's face was there instead. John, full of concern, understanding and that fierce protectiveness that Sherlock had seen one night at a pool when John had been covered in semtex and told him to run. His chest hurt.

* * *

The look in Sherlock's eyes made John ache. For an instant John saw exactly what Sherlock was giving him and it was painfully precious.

"I'm sorry," he said and then the look was gone, tucked away safely.

Sherlock waved his hand. "It's in the past. It was important in that it was Victor's father who gave me the idea to become a detective. It was my first case really."

"What happened to Victor?"

"I found him again, while I was…away. He's in the West Indies now, owns a boutique resort on an old tea plantation. He's fat and happy, long term boyfriend, same dog, it's fat too. I didn't speak to him."

Sherlock threw his arm over his eyes. He took a breath. "It was so long ago but I thought you should know."

John understood. He understood what Sherlock was trying to tell him – the parallels, the importance and maybe Victor wasn't the only one who'd had their heart broken. And also, that Sherlock was sharing something with him, an offer of a secret, trusting him.

"I'm trying, John," Sherlock said.

John lay his head on Sherlock's chest. So, very, very precious. "I know. I love you, by the way. In case you haven't realised." And it wasn't so hard to say after all.

Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh. He put his arm around John.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's chest. "I had a girlfriend, before Afghanistan. We were in med school together. She was great, fun, pretty, thought I was great, but she didn't understand why I wanted to join the army. She was expecting me to ask her to marry me but instead I enlisted. She broke up with me before I left. She was hard to get over and I didn't have another serious relationship, well Mary was probably the next, unless you count you, because it felt like we were in a relationship there sometimes. I – no point really, just want you to know everything too."

Sherlock kissed his hair. "Ghosts of lovers past."

John smiled and lifted up to give Sherlock a firm kiss. He rested his head back down on Sherlock's chest.

He traced Sherlock's ribs, ran his hand over his abdominal muscles to the coarse dark nest of hair at the top of his pubic bone. Sherlock's penis lay thick and semi-hard.

"I'm getting used to this," John said, stroking it lightly.

Sherlock huffed a laugh and found John's hardening cock in return. "So am I." He turned so he could lick at John's ear lobe. "You can have me, if you like."

"Mm, I would like to try that. If you wouldn't mind?" Maybe he hadn't watched any instructional videos but he did know how to find the prostate and he had paid bloody close attention to what Sherlock had done the night before.

"I would like to try that too."

"Roll over then."

Sherlock looked at him questioningly.

"You, Sherlock Holmes, have a very sexy arse," he said and he was pleased to see a blush colour Sherlock's cheekbones.

"Oh," he said and rolled onto his stomach, exposing his lean back, the curve of his backbone, dipping and rising into rather perfect buttocks.

"See? Sexy," said John, and he rose up, straddling Sherlock's thighs, while he explored Sherlock's back with hands and tongue. When at last he reached Sherlock's arse, he cupped it with two hands, squeezing. "Perfect," he said, which made Sherlock chuckle. He bent forward and gave an experimental nip, which made Sherlock yelp slightly. John licked the injured spot and then added a lovely purple love bite on the white skin, which made Sherlock hiss.

"Are you quite finished defacing me?" he demanded.

John gave one last swipe with his tongue on that butt-cheek before licking along the top of the cleft, lower and then further. Finally, when Sherlock was on his knees, pushing against him, begging, demanding, he slid into tight, perfect flesh.

The world stopped. Or at least his breath did. Maybe both.

"_John-" _Sherlock groaned.

John waited, blood pounding in his ears, breath suddenly coming back, wanting, damn it, so fucking tight- "Sherlock, all right?" he bit out.

"All right," Sherlock bit back. "Don't stop."

John drew back with relief and then thrust in.

"Sherlock, fuck-_"_

There was suddenly a noise from the kitchen. "Boys? Are you home? I made some jam drops-"

John froze. Mrs Hudson. "Oh god," he said, dropping his head to Sherlock's back.

"Not now Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock bellowed, and John snorted and started to shake with laughter, and Sherlock started to shake as well.

"Sherlock? John?"

John looked up in horror. "Shit, the door –" Sherlock's bedroom door wasn't even shut, let alone locked. Still sniggering John fell out of bed, and grabbed Sherlock's dressing gown. He poked his head out of the bedroom door and saw Mrs Hudson fluffing around in the kitchen.

"Mrs Hudson, thank you, very, very much, but do you think you could pop back a bit later? Sherlock and I are trying to have sex."

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson's hands flew to her cheeks. "Sorry, dear. Oh, don't let me interrupt! I'll come back later."

John shut the bedroom door firmly behind him. Sherlock was lying on his stomach a crooked grin and a funny expression on his face.

"Sometimes you manage to surprise me, John," he said.

"Mrs Hudson thinks we've been going at it since we met anyway," said John, throwing off the dressing gown. He climbed back on the bed and ran his hand down Sherlock's back. "I believe I was in the middle of buggering you."

"Don't even think about stopping," said Sherlock.

"I wasn't," said John and resumed his position.

* * *

Sherlock was falling. Falling and John was going to catch him. He was taken and filled and owned and that was good and fine because it was John and John loved him and wouldn't let him fall, not fall. Not. Not with the blinding whiteness that filled his mind each time John drove into him, not with the coiling pressure that was building inside him, not with this tightness in his chest and throat, this want and need and _feeling_ that were crowding his mind and choking him. And John was pounding into him now, harder, not hard enough, he needed more and -

"_John!" _And the brightness and the pressure seared through him and his orgasm overtook him and John was swearing and cursing and calling him love and bucking against him, spilling into him, falling on him, holding him, heavy and safe and warm.

And then there was peace. His mind was quiet, his body quiet, his heartbeat and breathing calmed. John loved him and he loved John, and he knew that was emotional and sentimental but that was acceptable because as long as he had John, had _this, _this perfect synergy of love and being loved, then he had equilibrium and it would be all right.

* * *

Afterwards, they lay in bed half on top of each other, dozing lightly, kissing lazily until finally John decided he really needed a shower and took Sherlock with him. They kissed languorously under the spray, so different to the last time John had been in the shower with Sherlock. Afterwards, clean and dressed they went down to Speedy's for a late breakfast and John didn't mind when Sherlock held his hand under the table.

**tbc**

**I think there will be one more chapter and an epilogue after this. thanks for reading!**


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: **Regular old M rated chapter this time. Thanks again for reviews, favourites and alerts! Comments and concrit gratefully received.

**Part 9**

The rest of the day was spent puttering around the flat. John took their laundry and went down to Mrs Hudson's to use her washing machine and to apologise and be fed tea and cake while she gushed about how lovely it was that he and Sherlock were together and asked embarrassing questions about their love life.

John went back upstairs while the washing was in the dryer and with some glee sent Sherlock down later to collect it. He came back after half an hour, cheeks a little pink but looking sheepishly pleased all the same.

And then, John was in the middle of ironing their shirts with perfect military creases and listening to Sherlock play the violin when Detective Inspector Lestrade arrived with a case.

* * *

Greg Lestrade could hear violin music as Mrs Hudson led the way upstairs to Sherlock's flat. The old lady made a show of knocking loudly and calling out for Sherlock and John before opening the door which seemed a bit odd, but then Greg stepped into the flat and he realised he'd intruded on something private. John was standing at the ironing board and Sherlock on the other side, not two feet away from him, violin at his chin.

Sherlock didn't even look up and instead kept playing, a slow haunting melody, his eyes locked with John's. After a few long moments he drew his song to a close and lowered the violin. There was a long moment of silence, the two men just looking at each other.

Then John blinked and glanced finally towards Greg.

"Greg! Hello," he said.

"John, Sherlock. Got some time this afternoon, Sherlock? Got an odd one you might like."

Greg saw Sherlock glance at John. "How odd?" he asked.

John looked between the both of them then back at Sherlock. "Go on, I'll come too, if you like."

And Greg almost had to look away because he'd never seen Sherlock beam at someone like that before.

There'd been talk of course, about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, but up until now Greg had always assumed it was just gossip. Still, having your best mate come back from the dead might make you a bit closer than usual, he supposed. Greg was just glad Sherlock hadn't killed himself after all, one less thing to bother his conscience at 3 am, not to mention the fact he could get his help again on the tricky cases.

He tried not to notice that they both winced when they sat down in the police car and then looked at each other and sniggered like bloody school kids.

John stood quietly to the side while Sherlock crawled over the crime scene, talking the problem out loud.

"Sherlock," said John suddenly. "Where's that pipe go?"

And Sherlock looked up, saw where John was pointing and spun around, strode over and grasped him by the shoulders.

"Brilliant John!" he exclaimed, and for a moment Greg thought Sherlock was about to kiss John but instead there was that look again and a simple mutual smile. Yeah, they were shagging all right. And then Sherlock spun away again, words rattling out a mile a minute and Greg tried to keep up but still ended up getting lost.

* * *

It was morning before they got home and John wolfed down some breakfast and then collapsed into bed, exhausted. Sherlock joined him but they were too tired for much except a bit of a fondle before sleep claimed them. They woke late afternoon and managed to get in a spot of mutual masturbation before supper.

Sherlock lay on the sofa and pondered something while John read a bit, and then turned in for the night. He stirred briefly when Sherlock slid in beside him much later, enough for a kiss and a snuggle, before falling into a deep sleep. When he awoke he was alone, Sherlock's spot still warm, and he felt a sense of anticipation, of having something to look forward to when he got up.

Sherlock was working at the kitchen table when John came in for breakfast. He was in his pyjamas with his dressing gown thrown on top.

"Hey," said John, a feeling of fondness warming him. He put his hand briefly on Sherlock's shoulder and then kissed the back of his head.

"Morning," Sherlock said and caught his hand, pulling him closer for a proper kiss.

"You're up early," said John when they parted.

"Busy. These kidneys won't pickle themselves," said Sherlock turning back to his experiment.

John glanced at the contents of the beakers on the table. "Lovely. Coffee?"

"No. Tea though, if you're putting the kettle on."

"Ok."

He made toast, some for himself and some for Sherlock and a tea and a coffee and then sat down, pulling Friday's newspaper from his briefcase.

Sherlock made a quiet humming noise and John heard him sip his tea.

"Got anything exciting planned for today?" John asked.

"Apart from experimenting with kidney necrosis?"

"Ah, full day lined up then," said John, giving Sherlock half a grin.

"No case, no, if that's what you're asking. Would you come with me if I did?"

John thought about this. The two other doctors employed in his practice were competent and always on time, but he wouldn't be making any money or setting a good example if he didn't bother to show up. All the same…

"Maybe. If it was exciting enough."

"Interesting," mused Sherlock, looking at him speculatively.

"Don't take that as a challenge. I really do need to go to work if I'm ever going to pay you back."

"You don't need to pay me back."

"I do, actually. I took that money on the understanding that you were dead. So now, I need to pay you back."

Sherlock returned to his experiment. "Mycroft's sorted it out. Apparently he's happier for Mummy's money to be tied up in your practice earning you a decent living than for me to squander it on…ah…recreational materials."

"But it's _your _money, and you aren't taking as many cases as…before…so if you're not getting your trust allowance-"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll be a kept man then, you can pay my rent and buy me food and keep me in the manner to which I've become accustomed."

"You just can't be arsed to pay the bills," John said with a snort.

"Tedious," acknowledged Sherlock.

John knew there were so many things wrong with this suggestion, Sherlock may just be being generous, or manipulative or just plain lazy, but either way, it was a recipe for disaster. Apart from the fact that it would mean he would feel forever in debt to Sherlock in regard to the practice, tied to him really, it would also mean a definite financial power imbalance. John knew it wasn't workable, the minute Sherlock came home with a new Dolce Gabbana shirt he'd have issues.

He and Mary had addressed this problem when they started talking about Mary stopping work to be at home full time with the baby. They'd decided to put all income into a joint account and pay themselves an allowance for personal spending.

"Fine. I'll pay you what you normally would have received as an allowance and take it off what I owe you."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd rather you just pay for everything but, very well, if it will stop you feeling obligated to me."

"It would," said John. "And besides, do you really want to have to ask me for cash every time you need to buy something."

Sherlock shrugged again, and then he glanced with John with a smirk. "I don't know, maybe I like feeling dependent."

John took a sip of tea and looked at him over the rim of the cup. He put the cup down slowly. "Co-dependent you mean."

"You say it like it's a bad thing."

"It is a bad thing. I'm not going to be embarking on a co-dependent relationship with anyone Sherlock, especially with you. Tried it once and I'm still taking the anti-depressants."

Sherlock sniffed. "I liked how we were before."

"So much so that you faked your own death and disappeared for three years." And John hadn't meant to flick the sore spot, but he had.

"John," Sherlock said reproachfully, looking away. He flicked his pen on the table, experiment apparently forgotten. "Fine, pay me an allowance, at least you won't nag me about how I spend it then."

"Not so hard, was it? Having an adult conversation and coming to a reasonable compromise."

"Boring, is the word you're looking for. Now, stop bothering me, I'm trying to work." Sherlock sniffed, but his lips twitched unmistakeably into a smile as he glanced at John.

John smiled and turned back to his newspaper.

* * *

Sherlock finished his experiment and went for a walk. He walked and got on the Tube and got off and walked again.

John was happy. They were back at 221B Baker Street and everything was normal again.

Except.

John loved him. John shared his body with him. And he – he allowed himself to indulge in emotion and sentiment and _cared_ and _loved_. He was at his weakest, his most vulnerable. He had exposed his soft underbelly to John completely, had handed him a weapon that he could use against him at any moment, and trusted him completely not to. And worse, any enemy with the slightest intelligence would _know_ and John would be a target, an easy means to hurt him beyond endurance.

He had made himself weak.

He still carried his passport in his pocket, force of habit. He had his wallet and his phone. He could get a flight. He could get a flight and not come back.

He wouldn't see John again. The years stretched out before him, long and lonely, made worse by the knowledge that this time John would be hating him and would never forgive him…like Victor.

He swallowed against the thickness in his throat, the tightness in his chest. There was no question.

Sherlock turned a corner and then walked back to the Tube. He went back to Baker Street Station and he walked up the stairs, stripped off his coat and then boiled the kettle because John would be home soon. For that, Sherlock would risk everything.

* * *

They reached a new kind of equilibrium, one that involved nights together and most week days apart, except John three times now had played hooky from work to go with Sherlock on a case. The weather turned unreasonably foul with sleet and a bitter wind. Snug at home with Sherlock made their flat seem even more like some sort of safe cocoon against the world. A place where there was Sherlock and the things they did together and the whispered confessions, secret, warm, safe. It felt vaguely unreal as if when John stepped out the door he returned to the real world, where he didn't shag his best mate and wasn't madly in love with him either. John thought a lot, about love and friendship and forgiveness and trust and mostly, people who were undeniably important to him.

One night a few weeks later, John was sitting on the sofa, Sherlock draped sideways in his armchair, both with books in their hands.

John finally threw his book down and got up to make some tea. He tapped absently at the kitchen bench top with his fingers while he waited for the kettle to boil. He had been turning some thoughts over in his head for the past hour and had finally come to a decision. He jumped slightly when Sherlock's arms suddenly snaked around his waist.

"Want some tea?" John asked, relaxing back against the taller man.

"Yes." Sherlock pulled him into his new favourite embrace, John's head tucked safe under Sherlock's chin, Sherlock's arms looped around his waist. John leant back into the embrace, sliding his hands back to tuck them in the back of Sherlock's pyjama trousers.

"Sherlock –" John said. "About us-"

"Yes." Sherlock rolled his hips forward against John's arse.

"Yes what?"

"Whatever conclusion you've reached about us, yes." Sherlock's arms about his waist tightened a little.

"What if I said I didn't want to have sex anymore?" John turned his head trying to get a glimpse of Sherlock's face.

Sherlock pecked a kiss in his hair. "Unlikely given you're fondling my arse, but if that's what you want, yes."

John gave said arse a squeeze. "You won't argue?"

"I told you John, you're important to me. I can live without sex. I'd prefer not to live without you." He traced lazy circles over John's stomach with his hands.

"What if that's what I decided? That I don't want to be at the flat anymore?"

Sherlock's hands stilled on John's stomach. "Is it?"

"No. But you'd just…accept that?"

"I can hardly force you to stay. Well…I could but you'd hardly like that." Sherlock's hands started stroking his belly again.

"You wouldn't try to change my mind?" The kettle clicked off.

"John, are we going to have an argument about a hypothetical situation that hasn't happened yet?"

John's mouth twitched. He bit his bottom lip. "Um, pointless bickering, I think we've just proven beyond any reasonable doubt that we're a couple."

He could _feel_ Sherlock smirking against his hair. "Huh, is that your conclusion then? Rather obvious."

John freed his hands from Sherlock and turned back to the kitchen bench to pour the boiled water into the waiting mugs. "No, obviously, you prat, we're best friends, we live together, we sleep together and we've been shagging nearly a month, we're in a relationship. What I was going to say was – do you want to be?" John turned back to face Sherlock. He leant back against the bench top.

"I want to be in a relationship with you," said Sherlock. "Is that what you wanted to know?" He tugged lightly at John's t-shirt with his fingers, hips tilted towards him.

"Yes… not just friends who shag. Together, romantically, long term. Is that something you want?"

Sherlock looked at him penetratingly for a moment. "I don't wish to stop having sex with you, I don't want you _dating_ anyone else. I want you to be with me, live with me, sleep with me. I would like it if you worked with me, but if you _insist_ on keeping your job at the practice, I won't make an issue of it." His fingers curled around John's wrist. "I'd like that indefinitely. I'm not an idiot John, I realise a relationship with me would be somewhat limiting for you, I can't bear your children, you prefer female anatomy, but perhaps- we could _try._ And when you ...get tired of it, I hope that you will still count me as a friend."

"I would like that too," John said, catching Sherlock's hands in his own. He rubbed his thumbs lightly over the back of Sherlock's hands. "I mean, I've thought of all the reasons not to do this and I realised I don't care. Kids would be nice but that was all part of the normal fantasy and this is something different, something I want just as much. You, just you, whatever it is we have here. I can't see me ever not wanting this and I'm ok with that. I really am."

"You are?"

John nodded. "Yeah. You're stuck with me, for however long you want me."

Sherlock stepped forward and rested his forehead against John's. "Good."

He brushed his nose against John's. His expression turned sulky and possessive. "I would have convinced you to stay, by the way, if you'd said you wanted to leave."

John's lips twitched into a smile. "Oh. That's…good." He found Sherlock's lips and kissed him until Sherlock sighed and pressed his hips against him again. John drew back, he looked at his best friend, lover, partner, _Sherlock. _He could be happy, like this.

_"and in the end we shall achieve in time_  
_The thing they call divine_  
_When all the stars will smile for me_  
_When all is well and well is all for all_  
_And forever after,_  
_Maybe in the meantime wait and see"_

_- In the meantime, Spacehog._

**The end.** (ahem kind of, there's an epilogue to come yet)


	10. Chapter 10

**__****Reposting this chapter to make an announcement, sorry for the spam: ****first two chapters of the sequel ****'How I impregnated your mother' have been posted. (It occurred to me that maybe some of the 90 of you are still following because you're waiting for more?). Available here, on LJ and A03. Thanks :)**

**AN:**Includes ideas pinched from the The Adventure of the Norwood Builder. Sherlock being manipulative, I had to use it.

**Edited** to fix pants debacle, thanks TSylvestrisA for trouble-shooting!

**Epilogue**

_Six months later._

"We need to talk," John said as he walked in the door to 221B Baker Street.

"Ominous," said Sherlock, looking up from his microscope.

"I sold my practice."

"Oh, good news then."

"I thought so. Then I did a bit of digging. Turns out my buyer, Dr Martin Vemer, is your cousin. Turns out, Dr Martin Vemer got the money to buy my practice with a loan from a mysterious donor."

"Curious," said Sherlock, still not looking up.

"If I didn't know you don't have a cent to your name, I'd almost suspect you had given my buyer the money. But you don't have any money. So that leaves Mycroft. And why would Mycroft want me to have half a million quid lying around where you can get your hands on it?"

"Maybe he trusts you more than me."

"Or maybe there's a bank account I don't know about, _Peter_."

"Ah. That." Sherlock had the decency to look shifty.

"Hmm. Turns out Peter Sigerson did a bit of freelance work doing internal investigations on corporate crime. Turns out that pays pretty well. Turns out, Peter Sigerson had quite a nest egg put away."

"Did he? How tediously sensible of him."

"In case you've deleted it, Sherlock, Peter Sigerson is you."

"Mmm."

"Sherlock! I would have found an actual buyer!" John groaned. "There are so many things wrong with this!"

Sherlock finally abandoned his microscope. He stood up.

"You were taking forever. I wanted you working with me, not wasting time managing the constant complaints of a group of whiny GPs."

It had all started when Sherlock tried to do his taxes and Mycroft had to supply a forensic accountant just to get them sorted. Or maybe when John kept missing days at the practice because he couldn't resist following Sherlock on one of his cases. Or maybe because John kept getting sick thanks to the virus ridden patients he dealt with all day. Or maybe because after a week of arguing, Sherlock convinced John to start blogging again. Or maybe because Sherlock left a cheque for ten thousand quid in a pair of jeans he wore for the case and it got washed. Either way it had started to seem like a good idea for John to sell the practice and work full time with Sherlock. All the same, John's understanding was that it would be an _actual _buyer not some front for Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"You gave money to someone to give to me, which means you gave away my practice-"

"Vemer will pay me back. It was an investment." Sherlock took another wary step closer.

John rubbed his eyes. "You let me think you had no money."

"You assumed. Not my fault your assumption was incorrect. You never actually asked me if I had any money."

"Sherlock – ok. Do we need to have the building trust in our relationship talk again?"

"Do we have to?" Sherlock pouted, damn him.

John sighed. "Anything else I need to know?"

"No I think you figured it all out. You've surpassed my expectations actually. Martin Vemer is my mother's second cousin. I earned the money working for a hedge fund in New York, and yes I failed to mention it but I like having you taking care of me and it made you feel better about using the money I left you for the practice so I can't see what the problem is. And Vemer will be paying me back with interest so we're still earning money from your practice without you having to work there. And it all goes into our joint account anyway so now you don't owe me for the practice and you're free to spend your time extracting payments from our clients." He raised his eyebrows at John. "You're welcome."

John sank down into a chair, deflated. "I'm still angry but you have a point."

"Of course I have a point." Sherlock leaned against the table in front of him, arms crossed defensively.

"You know how we talked about the difference between cute surprises and manipulative behaviour? This falls under manipulative behaviour."

"I thought it was more, taking an interest in your wellbeing."

John glared. He'd learnt not to immediately equate every breach of trust with Sherlock jumping off Bart's but it was hard not to feel that same sense of betrayal every time Sherlock thought he knew best and ought to keep John out of the loop. Sherlock was trying, John knew that. John knew too that he had to trust Sherlock as well, and he also sometimes wanted to be able to do things without broadcasting them to Sherlock in advance – dinner reservations, presents, a trip to the movies by himself. Differentiating between the two types of secrets where you had the interests of your loved one at heart was…well, there were missteps.

"Sorry?" Sherlock offered. He uncrossed his arms.

"Yes. That is appropriate," said John.

"Foot rub?"

"That would also help," said John

"I love you?" Sherlock said, pulling John to his feet and into a bony embrace.

"That as well. I love you too." John sighed and pressed his forehead into Sherlock's neck.

"Of course. Why else would I bother?" Sherlock licked John's ear lobe. "I was _going _to say, before you started getting outraged, there's something for you on the kitchen cabinet."

John detached himself from Sherlock and found a small cardboard box. He opened it.

"Oh."

Business cards. He picked one out.

"_Dr John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detectives" _it read. It had John's mobile number on it as well as their email and the address of their flat. John and Sherlock, not Sherlock and assistant, or John, assistant to Sherlock. John and Sherlock.

John looked up at Sherlock. "You put my name first."

Sherlock shrugged. "Doctor sounds more prestigious." His lips quirked up into a half smile. "How many times do I have to tell you you're important?"

John bit his bottom lip, then looked up at Sherlock who was trying not to look like he was waiting on tenterhooks. "It's...they're great. Really great. Thank you."

Sherlock broke into a proper smile. He relaxed visibly.

"Um, that would be a good surprise," John said, unbelievably touched. "That's…yeah."

And it was about that point that Sherlock shut him up with a kiss.

**The end. Thanks for reading! Sequel has now been started: How I impregnated your mother. **


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